his  hook  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


BY  LEAFY  WAYS 


gfubies  from  tfje  Igoofe  of 

STATE  NORMALSCHOOL, 


I  .OS 
FRANCIS   A.    KNIGHT. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  E.  T.  COMPTON. 


fourth  (Eiiition. 

BOSTON: 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS, 
1890. 


TO 

J     R.    ROBINSON,    ESQ., 

THESE  SKETCHES, 
WHICH    FIRST   APPEARED    IN   THE   DAILY  NEWS, 

|Ue  (Sratcfullg 

BY 

THE    AUTHOR. 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

TENANTS   OF  A   SEASON        .....  J 

A  CITIZEN   OF  THE  WORLD  8 

THE  PROMISE   OF   MAY         -  .  .  -  -        1 


A   RIVER   PATH         - 
BY  LEAFY   WAYS      . 


AS   EVENING   DARKENS 


SABRINA    FAIR 


A   RISING   GENERATION         -  -  -  -  38 

A   COLD-BLOODED    RACE       -  .  -  .  -         45 

BY  QUIET  WATERS  -  -  .  .  52 


59 


A    PARADISE   OF   BIRDS          -  .  .  .  -66 


74 


ALL  AMONG  THE  BARLEY  -                -                .                .  82 

THE  MISTY   MOORLAND       -                -                .                .                -  89 

FOOTPRINTS  ON   THE   SANDS             .                .                -                -  97 

THE   PARTING   GUESTS          .....  104 

FLYING,    FLYING   SOUTH      .....  109 


Table  of  Contents. 


PAGE 

THE  RETURN   OF   THE   FIELDFARE  -      Il6 

THE  SUMMER  OF   ST.    MARTIN        -  -      123 

'A   GREAT   FREQUENTER   OF   THE   CHURCH  -                 -       130 

SYLVAN   MINSTRELS                                                -  '138 

WINTER   VISITORS  -                                                 -  -      144 

ADAPTED   PLUMAGE  -      149 

OUTLAWS      -  -      157 

SOME  BIRD   MYTHS                 -                                -  -      1 66 

WHEN   WOODS  ARE  BARE  -                -               -  -      1 74 

THE  BIRD'S-EYE  VIEW      -  -     182 

THE  WINTRY  SHORE             -  -      189 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

IN  WESTON  WOOD  Frontispiece 

WREN   AND   NF.ST    -  i 

THE  STARLING'S  HAUNT  -  -           -.  8 

BRIDGE  ON   THE   DART         -  -  34 

PEREGRINES                                                     -  -                  .                 -  38 

THE    STEEP    HOLM    -                                   -  -  44 

ON    THE    BROADS      -  .                 .    To  face  52 

WINSCOMBE   CHURCH  .  59 

WROXETER  .    Toface  74 

ON    DARTMOOR           -  -                 -  89 

GATHERING   SWALLOWS        -  -                                   -  104 

BORGUND   CHURCH,   WITH    FIELDFARE'S  NEST                         -  Il6 

GLASTONBURY  ABBEY  -                -                -  130 

THE   HAUNT   OF   THE   KINGFISHER  -                -  149 

KESTREL'S  NEST  IN  CALLOW  CLIFFS  -            -            -  157 

THE  WOODPECKER'S  HOME  -           -  174 

IN    SAND    BAY              -  .  jg; 


Under  the  greenwood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  bird's  sweet  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither. 

As  You  Like  It. 


TENANTS    OF    A    SEASON. 


It  was  the  season  when  through  all  the  land 
The  merle  and  mavis  build.' 


C  LOWLY,   in 

the   morning   of    the 
year,  the  hard  hand  of  winter  relaxes  f 
from  the  sleeping  land.     The  purple 
buds  are  thick  on  every  tree.     In  the 
copses,  the  woodbine  and  the  briar 
are  fretted  with  tufts  of  dainty  foliage.     The  white 
clusters  of  the  sloe  cling  to  bare  black  stems  like  the 
last  trace  of  lingering  winter. 

Although  there  is  but  scanty  cover  yet  in  wood  and 
hedgerow,  the  birds  even  now,  in  quiet  nooks  and  un- 
frequented corners,  are  beginning  to  build. 

I 


2  By  Leafy  Ways. 

Already  the  missel-thrush  has  put  the  finishing 
touches  to  her  great  nest  in  the  apple-tree,  where,  with- 
out a  leaf  to  hide  it,  it  stands  plain  to  all  the  world. 

In  banks  and  walls,  robins  have  long  been  busy  with 
their  early  broods. 

The  magpie  is  lacing  more  sticks  among  the  outworks 
of  his  citadel.  In  many  a  budding  elm  the  song-thrush 
is  singing  to  his  mate  on  her  nest  in  the  thicket  below. 

The  mellow  whistle  of  the  blackbird,  the  cheerful 
cadence  of  the  chaffinch,  and  now  and  then  on  bright 
days  the  music  of  the  lark,  tempt  us  to  forget  the 
lingering  bitterness  of  the  winter,  and  dream  of  May- 
day flowers  and  summer  sunshine. 

Most  dexterous  architects  are  these  children  of  the 
air.  The  nests  of  some  of  them  may  seem  by  com- 
parison rough  and  undecorated  structures,  built  for  use 
and  with  little  claim  to  beauty.  The  jackdaw  blocks  the 
turret  stairway  with  a  pile  of  rubbish  that  looks  like  pre- 
parations for  a  bonfire.  The  ringdove  trusts  her  eggs 
to  a  frail  platform  of  sticks  woven  so  carelessly  that 
their  white  forms  are  often  clearly  visible  from  below. 

Some  birds,  whose  lives  are  passed  chiefly  on  the 
ground,  make  no  nest  whatever,  and  their  young  can 
run  — in  some  rare  cases,  even  fly — as  soon  as  they 
leave  the  shell.  But  the  nests  of  others,  though  used 
only  for  a  single  season,  are  marvellous  works  of  art ; 
and  of  all  clever  builders,  the  most  dexterous  is  the 
long-tailed  tit. 

In  a  quiet  corner  of  the  meadow,  where  the  dubious 


Tenants  of  a  Season.  3 

path  is  seldom  worn  by  foot  of  man,  a  thick  briar-bush, 
standing  out  from  the  hedge,  leans  over  the  little  brook 
that  under  its  canopy  of  fresh  green  hart's-tongue 
wanders  by  unseen.  In  the  thorny  tangle  of  the  briar 
a  pair  of  these  skilful  weavers  will  set  to  work  upon 
their  dwelling,  and  the  fast  opening  leaves  of  April 
will  soon  draw  over  it  a  green  veil. 

The  structure  is  indeed  a  triumph  of  the  builder's 
art.  Without,  it  is  an  oval  ball  of  moss  felted  with 
wool  and  hair,  and  thickly  studded  with  scraps  of  gray 
lichen  fiom  the  stems  of  ancient  trees.  Within,  it  is 
cushioned  so  deeply  that  nearly  three  thousand  feathers 
have  been  counted  in  a  single  nest.  All  this  is  finished 
in  a  fortnight,  or  less,  from  the  first  layer  of  moss  to 
the  last  feather  in  the  lining.  The  entrance  is  at  the 
side— a  tiny  hole,  not  always  easy  to  discover.  How 
eight  young  birds  find  air  to  breathe  in  such  close 
quarters,  and  how  their  parents  contrive  to  feed  them 
ail  in  their  right  turns,  must  ever  remain  a  mystery. 
And  the  wonder  grows  when  we  consider  that  twelve 
or  even  twenty  eggs  have  been  found  in  one  of  these 
diminutive  nurseries. 

The  long-tailed  tit  has  neither  equal  nor  second,  but 
perhaps  no  bird  approaches  her  more  nearly  ihan  the 
wrert.  The  materials  she  chooses  vary  with  her  sur- 
roundings. Here,  skilfully  woven  of  green  moss,  the 
nest  fills  a  hollow  in  an  old  stump  so  naturally,  that 
among  fringes  of  lichen,  and  dark  festoons  of  ivy,  it 
seems  but  the  growth  of  time.  There,  under  the  brown 

I 2 


4  By  Leafy  Ways. 

eaves  of  an  ancient  barn,  it  is  a  delicate  fabric  of  dry 
grass,  harmonizing  exactly  with  the  stained  and 
weathered  thatch.  Now,  in  a  chink  in  the  crumbling 
ruin,  its  grays  and  browns  are  in  perfect  keeping  with 
the  tints  of  the  time-worn  masonry.  Now,  cradled  in 
the  arms  of  the  giant  ivy,  it  seems  but  the  handful  of 
dry  leaves  that  the  winds  of  autumn  heaped  into  the 
hollow.  Many  a  time  would  it  escape  notice  alto- 
gether, did  not  the  alarm  notes  of  the  builder,  like  a 
miniature  watchman's  rattle,  as  she  flits  uneasily  in  and 
out  of  the  hedgerow,  betray  what  she  fain  would  hide. 

Birds  in  general  are  jealous  of  any  meddling  with 
their  nests ;  but  the  wren  is  particularly  fastidious  ; 
and  should  her  sanctuary  be  touched  in  her  absence 
she  will  detect  the  profanation  in  a  moment,  and  will 
probably  abandon  her  eggs  without  further  ceremony. 

The  wren  lays  eight  eggs,  and  frequently  rears  a 
second  brood  in  the  season.  If  all  the  young  sur- 
vived, there  would  be  at  the  end  of  ten  years  no  fewer 
than  two  thousand  millions  of  descendants  to  a  single 
pair.  What  ghastly  tables  of  mortality  the  annals  of 
the  race  would  furnish  ! 

The  ivy-crowned  ruin  of  the  long  dismantled  mill 
whose  memory  goes  back  to  the  days  of  the  old  Nor- 
man survey  is  the  haunt  of  many  a  shy  feathered 
builder.  In  their  favourite  nook,  draped  with  dark 
trailing  moss,  glittering  with  drops  from  water  that 
still  plashes  down  where  water  fell  a  thousand  years 
ago,  a  pair  of  dainty  wagtails  make  their  nest  year 


Tenants  of  a  Season.  5 

after  year  safe  from  all  invasion,  unless  perchance  the 
visit  of  an  unprincipled  cuckoo. 

Niches  in  the  ancient  walls  are  tenanted  by  the  robin 
and  the  oxeye ;  among  the  sheltering  ivy  the  chaffinch 
weaves  her  nest.  High  up  in  the  great  sycamore  that 
spreads  its  broad  arms  over  the  ruin,  a  crow  has  built 
himself  a  fortress  destined  ere  long  to  be  harried  by 
some  angry  farmer,  and  the  thief  himself,  slain  perhaps 
red-handed,  hung  up  as  a  warning  to  his  fellows. 

Along  the  wandering  banks  beyond,  overshadowed 
in  summer  by  a  cool  canopy  of  marestail  and  meadow- 
sweet, there  lingers  yet  a  relic,  it  may  be,  of  far-off 
feudal  days.  For  among  the  tangle  of  the  winter 
thickets,  peering  shyly  out  here  and  there  between  the 
glossy  hazel  stems,  wild  snowdrops,  wild  since  Norman 
times,  hang  their  graceful  heads — far  more  lovely,  the 
naturalist  fondly  thinks,  than  their  statelier  sisters  of 
the  garden. 

Now  the  meeting  streams  widen  out  into  the  river. 
Dark  alders  and  gray  willow-trees  lean  over  the  water. 
Broad  belts  of  sedge  and  rushes  line  the  shore,  set 
here  and  there  with  fiery  clusters  of  marsh-marigold. 

Here  in  winter  the  snipe  get  up,  with  strange  cry 
and  devious  flight;  and  the  water-rail  steals  silently 
away  under  the  bank,  or,  as  she  flies  to  cover,  leaves  a 
silvery  path  with  her  trailing  feet. 

Here,  too,  in  springtime,  the  shy  moor-hen  cautiously 
anchors  her  broad  nest  of  flags  out  in  mid- stream 
among  brown  stems  of  rustling  reeds.  Later  on  she 


6  By  Leafy  Ways. 

will  lead  out  her  dusky  brood  on  these  tranquil  waters. 
Happy  the  man  who  catches  sight  of  the  little  crew  as 
they  make  their  first  plunge  into  the  world.  A  single 
day  old,  perhaps,  they  do  not  hesitate  at  the  approach 
of  danger  to  scramble  over  the  edge  of  the  nest  and 
swim  boldly  after  their  anxious  mother  to  safer  shelter 
on  the  opposite  shore.  Little  balls  of  black  down, 
with  a  touch  of  vermilion  for  a  beak,  they  venture 
fearlessly  on  their  first  cruise,  diving  under  obstructing 
logs  or  steering  carefully  through  a  fleet  of  lily  leaves 
with  the  coolness  of  a  practised  hand.  Sometimes  a 
low-hanging  branch  will  shipwreck  unawares  a  little 
argonaut  and  turn  him  on  his  back,  kicking  his  long 
yellow  feet  helplessly  in  the  air  until  righted  by  a 
dexterous  touch  from  the  parent's  bill. 

In  a  corner  of  the  orchard  yonder,  as  the  spring 
wears  on,  the  redstart  will  settle  down  after  her  wan- 
derings, and  in  the  ancestral  hollow  in  the  moss- 
grown  tree  will  brood  over  her  beautiful  blue  eggs, 
while  her  handsome  mate  will  sing  to  her  from  the 
branch  above,  the  briefest  of  lyrics  indeed,  but  glowing 
with  the  rich  music  of  the  south. 

The  swallow  will  come  north  across  the  far  Sahara, 
and  find  her  way  back  to  the  old  shed  on  whose 
blackened  rafters  her  nest  has  hung  so  long.  The 
white-throat  and  the  chiffchaff,  and  many  another 
rover,  will  return  and  join  the  musical  throng  that 
weave  their  fairy  homes  among  the  leaves. 

Let  no  hasty  hand  disturb  them,  or  too  curious  eye 


Tenants  of  a  Season.  7 

drive  them  from  their  accustomed  haunts.  It  is  strange 
that  any  could  be  found  to  tear  down  the  dainty  fabric 
and  scatter  its  contents  on  the  ground.  But  alas  !  we 
are  all  familiar  with  the  birdsnester,  who  on  mischief 
bent  strolls  along  the  lane  with  a  nest  of  gaping  fledg- 
lings in  his  hat  and  a  string  of  birds'  eggs  in  his  hand. 
He  is  a  young  barbarian,  the  aversion  of  the  old  ladies 
of  the  parish.  The  parson  has  got  his  eye  upon  him. 
He  will  come  tc  a  bad  end,  after  a  career  of  depravity, 
punctuated  by  ineffectual  birchings,  solitary  confine- 
ment, and  the  treadmill. 

But  there  is  happily  a  birdsnester  of  a  different 
stamp  altogether,  upon  whose  conscious  ear  there 
never  falls  the  accusing  plaint  of  the  robin,  or  the 
lament  of  the  plundered  song-thrush.  The  flycatcher 
builds  fearlessly  in  his  trellis  ;  the  very  oriole  might 
trust  her  eggs  within  his  reach.  No  bird  that  flies 
will  find  an  enemy  in  him.  He  delights  to  watch  and 
not  to  plunder ;  he  finds  his  pleasure  among  the  living 
rather  than  the  dead.  The  tenants  of  the  tangled 
coppice  are  yeomen  of  his  manor ;  he  is  proud  to 
reckon  on  his  list  of  friends  a  score  of  singers 

'  Whose  household  words  are  songs  in  many  keys 
Sweeter  than  instrument  of  man  e'er  caught  ; 
Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even 
Are  half-way  houses  on  the  road  to  heaven.' 


A    CITIZEN    OF    THE    WORLD. 


>.' '  T  N  those  welcome  intervals  in 
the  bitter  weather,  when  the 
vanes  have  all  veered  round  to  the 
southward  ;  when  the  biting  east  no 
longer  threatens  to  dry  up  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
in  the  most  genial  soul ;  when  from  a  fair  blue  heaven 
the  warm  sun  smiles  down  upon  the  leafless  land- 
scape, the  birds — untaught  by  old  experience  and 
bitter  memories — hail  with  delight  the  first  glimmer  of 
returning  spring. 

The  tender  music  of  the  robin  and  the  noble 
melody  of  the  song-thrush  give  us  in  their  dulcet  strains 
some  foretaste  of  the  ballad  concerts  of  the  April  copses. 


A  Citizen  of  the  World.  g 

The  rooks,  wheeling  round  their  windy  stations  in 
the  reeling  elm  trees,  hold  eager  and  excited  conclave 
on  the  havoc  that  storm  and  rain  have  wrought  in  the 
ancient  settlement.  Ere  long  the  dusky  architects 
will  set  to  work  in  earnest.  Ere  long  there  will  rise 
above  each  long  silent  and  deserted  rookery,  the 
familiar  Babel  of  the  city  in  the  air. 

Jackdaws  sit  and  sun  themselves  on  the  roofs,  and 
loiter  round  the  gables  in  search  of  quarters  for  the 
season.  In  noisy  troops  they  drift  along  the  gray 
front  of  the  old  cathedral,  debating,  in  their  clear 
incisive  way,  where  they  shall  collect  the  bushel  or  so 
of  sticks  for  their  respective  nurseries — with  small 
reverence  for  the  stony  lines  of  saints  and  sovereigns 
whose  battered  effigies  have  outlived  the  storms  of 
centuries,  and  the  leaden  hail  of  iconoclast  bullets. 

But  more  striking  still,  visible  everywhere,  audible 
on  every  side,  proclaiming  to  all  whom  it  may  concern 
that  he  is  in  want  of  a  wife,  there  sings  on  every  house- 
top the  light-hearted  and  irrepressible  starling.  He  is 
an  odd-looking  figure  as  he  stands  up  there  at  the  end 
of  the  gable,  or  on  the  top  of  his  favourite  chimney — 
now  crooning  his  own  quaint  runes  ;  now  singing  a 
mellow  stave  copied  from  thrush  or  blackbird ;  now 
whistling  like  any  plough-boy,  with  his  head  thrown 
back,  and  shaking  now  and  then  his  drooping  wings, 
looking  for  all  the  world  like  an  old  gentleman  with 
his  hands  under  his  coat-tails,  laying  down  the  law  in 
the  family  circle. 


io  By  Leafy  Ways. 

At  first  sight  he  may  seem  a  dull  and  sombre  bird 
enough,  of  no  special  colouring,  and  slender  claim  to 
beauty ;  and  the  city  starling,  like  most  town  birds,  is 
no  doubt  generally  more  or  less  tinged  with  the  soot 
of  his  usual  surroundings.  But  at  this  season  of  the 
year,  wherever  he  may  be — perched  upon  the  smoke- 
blackened  gable  of  a  London  roof  or  swaying  on  the 
topmost  spray  of  the  noble  elm  that  overshadows  the 
ancient  homestead — he  is  in  his  nuptial  dress  ;  and 
when  the  sunshine,  flashing  on  his  glossy  plumage, 
heightens  the  changing  lustre  of  the  exquisite  gorget 
of  pointed  green  and  purple  plumes  upon  his  silken 
breast,  lights  up  the  brown  lines  in  his  wings,  the 
countless  touches  of  white  and  amber  scattered  like 
points  of  flame  over  his  burnished  feathers,  it  were  safe 
to  say  that  few  British  birds  wear  a  more  brilliant 
livery  than  the  common  starling. 

He  is  a  bird  that  everyone  may  watch  who  will. 
He  haunts  the  narrow  grass-plot  of  the  dingy  city  as 
well  as  the  broad  meadow  of  the  open  country ;  he 
wanders  by  the  windy  sea,  or  on  the  upland  pasture  ; 
he  finds  shelter  in  a  niche  of  the  cathedral  turret,  or 
by  the  river  in  the  whispering  reeds.  His  home  is 
everywhere.  He  has  well  been  styled  a  Citizen  of 
the  World. 

Starlings  have  not  always  been  so  widely  dispersed. 
There  are  parts  of  the  country  where  old  inhabitants 
say  that  they  were  scarce  half  a  century  ago ;  but  of 
late  years  they  have  spread  very  rapidly. 


A   Citizen  of  the  World.  II 

There  are  no  more  industrious  birds  among  the 
friends  of  the  farmer.  The  rook  plays  a  useful  part, 
but  it  is  the  part  of  second  fiddle  to  the  starling ; 
though  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  latter  is  a  terrible 
fellow  when  his  energies  are  misdirected  in  a  fruit 
garden. 

Like  many  birds,  he  is  fond  of  berries.  In  the 
mountain-ash  trees  especially,  lighted  here  and  there 
with  the  hectic  flush  of  dying  summer,  and  hung  with 
clusters  of  scarlet  berries,  the  birds  in  autumn  hold 
high  revel.  Missel-thrushes  descend  in  hungry  crowds 
to  the  abundant  harvest.  Perhaps  even  a  roving  party 
of  ring-ouzels  may  pay  a  flying  visit.  But,  while  a 
bunch  of  the  bright  fruit  remains  to  plunder,  the  tree 
will  be  alive  from  dawn  to  dark  with  the  flutter  and 
the  chattering  of  troops  of  eager  starlings. 

The  song  of  the  starling  is  not  remarkable  as  a 
musical  performance,  consisting  as  it  does  of  a  strange 
inarticulate  chatter,  varied  by  whistling  often  not  much 
more  melodious  than  the  creaking  of  a  gate.  But 
there  is  no  bird  more  clever  in  imitating  the  songs  of 
more  tuneful  minstrels,  or  indeed  any  sounds,  musical 
or  otherwise,  that  may  strike  his  fancy.  The  town 
starling  brings  back  with  him  from  his  country  rambles 
into  the  hum  of  the  city,  the  lapwing's  wailing  cry,  the 
pipe  of  the  blackbird,  the  sharp  clack  of  the  jackdaw, 
even  the  call  of  the  curlew  ;  while  his  country  cousin 
on  the  barn  roof  will  copy  to  the  life  the  shrill  cry  of 
the  wryneck  in  the  neighbouring  elm,  the  crow  of  the 


12  By  Leafy  Ways. 

cock  in  the  yard  beneath  him,  the  chatter  of  a  startled 
magpie  in  the  field,  even  imitate  the  whistle  of  a  pass- 
ing train  ere  it  disappears  in  the  tunnel. 

The  starling  is  a  careless  builder.  His  nest  is  no 
marvel  of  patience  and  of  art ;  no  exquisite  fabric  of 
moss,  touched  here  and  there  with  lichen,  and 
harmonizing  so  well  with  its  surroundings  that  it  seems 
part  of  the  very  branch  in  which  it  is  cradled.  It  is 
almost  invariably  placed  in  a  hole  of  some  kind,  often 
under  the  tiles  of  a  house.  Here,  it  is  in  the  hollow  of 
an  ancient  tree;  there,  a  few  untidy  ends  of  straw 
hanging  out  of  a  niche  betray  its  presence  high  up  in 
the  ruined  tower  of  the  dismantled  abbey.  Now  it 
rouses  the  ire  of  the  householder  by  stopping  up  the 
rain-pipe  ;  now  it  is  under  the  brown  thatch  of  the  old 
farm  gable.  A  favourite  nesting  place  is  a  wood- 
pecker's hole,  new  or  old,  and  the  starling  is  most 
unscrupulous  in  evicting  the  rightful  occupiers  who 
have  had  all  the  trouble  of  getting  the  house  ready, 
even  before  they  have  used  it  themselves.  In  some 
such  quarters,  in  a  hollow  in  a  little  straw,  are  laid  the 
five  or  more  delicate  pale  blue  eggs ;  and,  when  the 
young  are  hatched,  the  cries  of  the  old  birds  and  the 
clamour  of  their  insatiable  brood  proclaim  the  where- 
abouts of  the  nest  to  every  passer-by. 

In  the  Bavarian  Highlands,  where  most  birds  are 
scarce,  and  where  the  swallow  builds  unmolested  in 
the  entrance  hall  of  the  village  hostelry,  the  starling  is 
a  welcome  retainer.  A  starling-box,  a  little  copy  of  a 


A  Citizen  of  the  World.  13 

broad-caved  mountain  chalet,  reared  aloft  upon  a  pole, 
or  nailed  to  a  tree,  or  fastened  to  the  wall  of  the 
house,  is  a  regular  fixture  of  the  garden.  The  birds 
soon  find  out  the  quarters  thus  prepared  for  them,  and 
should  a  rash  pair  of  sparrows  presume  to  start  house- 
keeping in  the  apartment  intended  for  their  betters, 
as  not  unfrequently  happens,  they  will  be  summarily 
expelled,  and,  as  likely  as  not,  their  brood  torn  to 
pieces  and  swallowed  by  the  offended  owners. 

When  summer  is  past,  the  scattered  families  of  a 
district  collect  in  flocks,  which,  as  the  year  advances, 
swell  to  such  dimensions  that  armies  of  starlings  have 
been  seen  which  were  estimated  at  millions.  The 
evolutions  of  these  aerial  legions  have  been  the  theme 
of  many  writers,  from  Dante  downwards.  Now  they 
are  marshalled  in  close  array,  compact  and  regular  as 
a  Macedonian  phalanx.  Now  the  great  mass  melts 
into  a  thin  column,  glittering  in  the  sunshine  as  it 
sways  and  bends  like  the  shining  coils  of  some  huge 
sea  monster.  Now,  as  by  preconcerted  sign,  they 
wheel  with  the  roar  of  a  myriad  upturned  wings.  Now 
they  scatter  like  a  shower  of  falling  leaves  upon  the 
meadow,  where,  with  noisy  chatter,  and  occasional 
bickerings,  they  make  as  clean  a  sweep  of  slugs,  and 
flies,  and  beetles,  as  ever  locusts  made  of  the  green 
corn  of  Egypt.  The  uproar  of  such  a  host  assembled 
in  a  clump  of  trees  before  going  to  roost  is  a  sound  to 
be  remembered.  It  is  a  Babel  of  chattering,  whistling, 
scolding  from  a  thousand  throats  at  once.  Now  and 


14  By  Leafy  Ways. 

then,  a  bird  here  and  there  whistles  loud  a  few  bars  of 
borrowed  song.  By  degrees  the  sounds  subside ;  the 
restless  multitude  gradually  quietens  down,  and  at  last 
is  silent  for  the  night. 

In  the  Fen  country  starlings  roost  among  the  reeds, 
and  the  damage  they  do  to  the  sedges  is  of  serious 
consequence  to  the  farmer.  Such  flocks  must  be 
seen,  or  at  least  heard,  before  their  size  can  be 
appreciated. 

A  party  of  yachtsmen,  mooring  their  craft  late  at 
night  among  the  Norfolk  Broads,  heard  strange  noises 
on  the  shore,  presumably  of  birds.  A  gun  was  fired, 
and  at  once  there  rose  out  of  the  reeds  a  sound  like 
the  rush  of  a  train  at  full  speed — a  roar  as  of  a  mighty 
wave,  coming  in  before  an  Atlantic  gale.  It  grew 
louder  yet  and  stronger  still,  until  it  almost  reached 
the  pitch  of  thunder.  Another  barrel,  and  another, 
and  another  still,  and  each  time  there  rose  in  answer 
the  same  mighty  sound;  the  whirr  of  innumerable 
wings,  the  rush  of  winged  legions  rising  from  the 
reeds,  with  the  cries  of  startled  wild  fowl  trumpet-like 
through  the  deeper  tone.  An  awsome  thing  to  listen 
to  in  the  darkness  :  a  weird  and  terrible  sound. 

Next  day  a  flock  of  starlings  was  seen  that  might 
well  have  played  the  chief  part  in  such  a  chorus — a 
flock  that  stretched  right  across  the  sky  overhead,  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach  on  either  side,  until  its 
shadowy  outline  faded  in  the  distance. 


THE    PROMISE    OF    MAY. 


V7EAR  by  year,  in  the  spring-time,  all  through  the 
wild  March  weather,  in  the  fickle  days  of  April, 
and  under  the  genial  smiles  of  May,  there  descend  upon 
our  coasts,  unseen,  unheard,  the  legions  of  an  invading 
army.  It  is  a  host  that  no  Government  Intelligence 
Department  takes  notice  of ;  which  no  system  of  coast 
defences  can  keep  out.  They  come  upon  us  in  the 
dark — or  at  best  by  moonlight : 

'  The  birds  who  make  sweet  music  for  us  all 
In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul.' 

Already  the  advanced  guards  have  appeared,  here 
and  there,  in  the  southern  districts.  Already  the 
white  flicker  of  the  wheat-ear  is  conspicuous  on  the 
bleak  downs  of  Sussex,  and  the  wide  stretches  of 
Salisbury  Plain.  Already  the  light-hearted  little  chiff- 
chaff  utters  his  happy  call-notes,  in  the  reeling  tops  of 
unsheltering  trees.  Already  the  tree-pipit,  after  soar- 
ing high  in  air  as  if  projected  from  a  catapult,  spreads 
wide  his  wings  and  tail,  and  descends  slowly,  singing 
as  he  sinks  to  his  station  on  one  of  the  weather-beaten 
bushes  of  some  still  wintry  hill-top. 


1 6  By  Leafy  Ways. 

The  swallows  who  have  reached  our  shores  have 
not  brought  summer  on  their  purple  wings,  and  their 
happy  snatches  of  song  seem  out  of  keeping  with  the 
chill  air  of  our  unfriendly  spring. 

It  seems  strange  that  birds  which  have  known  the 
sun  of  Syria,  or  the  clear  skies  of  Algiers,  should  ever 
come  back  to  the  fickle  climate  of  these  chillier  re- 
gions. One  of  them  indeed  does  '  draw  the  line  some- 
where.' No  nightingale  ever  yet  set  foot  in  the  sister 
island.  A  true  Irish  grievance,  for  which,  alas  !  Home 
Rule  will  be  found  no  remedy. 

The  phenomena  of  migration  have  always  been  an 
object  of  wonder — for  a  long  time  one  of  almost  abso- 
lute mystery.  The  older  writers  on  natural  history 
describe  how  swallows  pass  the  winter  in  holes,  and 
beneath  the  surface  of  ponds  and  rivers.  One  of  them 
even  gravely  propounded  the  theory  that  swallows  in 
the  winter  retire  to  the  moon.  It  is  but  fair  to  add 
that  he  abandoned  it  '  on  the  ground  that  the  moon  is 
too  far  off  to  be  reached  by  our  migratory  birds,  and 
because  it  is  doubtful  how  they  would  find  sustenance 
by  the  way  for  so  long  a  journey.' 

This  state  of  things  is  altered  now.  We  know 
where  the  migrants  pass  the  winter ;  and  we  know, 
too,  just  when  to  expect  the  return  of  the  wanderers  to 
their  favourite  haunts.  They  come  at  various  intervals, 
according  to  the  species,  but  with  a  regularity  that 
hardly  varies  from  year  to  year. 

Swallows  begin  to  come  back  in  the  first  week  of  April. 


The  Promise  of  May.  17 

One  of  these  early  comers  lately  caught  in  the  streets 
of  the  Bavarian  capital,  numb  with  cold  and  spent 
with  travel,  bore  upon  his  slender  foot  a  thin  plate  of 
metal,  stamped  with  the  Imperial  arms  of  Turkey. 
Nothing  more,  not  even  a  date,  so  that  whether  he  had 
come  from  Stamboul,  or  the  beleaguered  stronghold  of 
Emin  Bey,  remains  unknown.  But  he  had  come  in 
advance  of  spring-time.  Winter  still  brooded  over  the 
Bavarian  Highlands,  and  fresh-fallen  snow  lay  deep  in 
the  valley  of  the  Isar — as  it  often  does  long  after  the 
arrival  of  the  swallows. 

A  few  days — sometimes  as  much  as  a  fortnight — 
after  the  swallow  comes  the  cuckoo.  There  will  be 
the  usual  notices  in  country  papers,  of  '  an  extraordi- 
narily early  appearance  of  the  cuckoo  in  March,'  but 
the  naturalist  knows  better  than  to  look  for  it  then. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  bird  whose  note  is  more 
suggestive  of  the  early  days  of  summer  than  the 

cuckoo ; 

in  April  come  he  will ; 

but 

In  May  he  sings  all  day. 

The  cuckoo  of  the  poets  is  a  wandering  voice  ;  at  best 
but  a  dryad,  who  calls  unseen  from  the  depths  of 
the  greenwood.  There  is  certainly  something  strange 
about  a  bird  whose  parents  make  no  nest  of  their 
own,  and  who  has  to  depend  on  charity  for  his  bring- 
ing up. 

But  he  is  a  very  real  figure  in  the  sylvan  landscape, 

2 


1 8  By  Leafy  Ways. 

and  the  naturalist  knows  well  his  barred  breast  and 
delicate  gray  back,  and  knows,  too,  that  he  can  say  a 
good  deal  besides  his  own  name. 

High  up  in  the  branches  of  some  leafless  elm  he 
sits,  with  drooping  wings  and  tail  spread  wide,  and 
utters,  with  the  clearness  and  persistent  iteration  that 
we  know  so  well,  his  welcome  and  familiar  cry,  bowing 
each  time  with  a  precision  which  suggests  his  being 
moved  by  machinery,  like  the  quaint  but  faithful 
effigies  that  proclaim  the  hours  from  gable  windows 
of  Bavarian  clocks.  Now  and  then  he  makes  a  noise 
for  all  the  world  like  clearing  his  throat.  Now  with 
loose  flight  he  leaves  his  perch,  uttering  a  musical  trill 
entirely  unlike  his  usual  monotonous  song. 

There  seems  no  doubt  that  the  cuckoo  lays  her 
eggs  on  the  ground,  and  carries  them  in  her  mouth  to 
the  nest  in  which  she  means  to  leave  them.  Cuckoos 
have  indeed  been  shot  in  the  act. 

The  experience  of  the  birdnester  suggests,  and  the 
examination  of  a  long  series  of  specimens  confirms 
the  idea,  that  the  tint  of  a  cuckoo's  egg  varies  with  that 
of  the  intended  foster-parent,  and  that  it  bears  a 
strong  resemblance  to  the  eggs  of  the  wagtail,  pipit, 
whitethroat,  or  other  bird  in  whose  nest  it  is  deposited. 
How  is  this  to  be  explained  ?  Does  the  cuckoo 
which  was  reared  by  hedge-sparrows  lay  eggs  of  a 
bluish  cast,  and  does  she  choose  in  her  turn  hedge- 
sparrows'  nests  to  put  them  in  ?  Or  do  the  eggs  vary 
indifferently,  and  does  the  bird  carry  each  one  in  her 


The  Promise  of  May.  19 

mouth  until  she  can  match  it  to  her  satisfaction  ? 
Who  can  tell  ? 

April  has  brought  the  shrike  back  to  the  old  corner 
of  the  meadow,  where  last  year  she  decorated  the 
thorns  about  her  nest,  with  the  bodies  of  unhappy 
cockchafers  and  bumble-bees ;  has  brought  the  willow- 
wren,  and  the  whitethroat,  and  many  another  exile 
home  from  the  warm  south. 

May  will  bring  the  swift  across  the  burning  sands  of 
the  Soudan,  where  bleach,  alas  !  the  bones  of  many  a 
bold  forgotten  hero.  The  old  fable  of  the  Bird  of 
Paradise  is  true  of  him,  for  his  feet  never  touch  the 
ground  ;  and,  should  any  mischance  bring  him  there, 
those  very  pinions,  that  carry  him  through  the  air  at  a 
pace  that  leaves  him  no  rival  in  the  world  of  birds, 
from  their  length  and  their  curvature,  prevent  his 
rising  on  the  wing. 

Late  in  the  month  of  May,  the  fly-catcher,  among 
the  very  last  of  the  wayfarers,  will  find  her  way  back 
to  the  arms  of  the  ancestral  vine  that  wanders  along 
the  sunny  wall ;  will  perch  once  more  on  the  low  bough 
of  the  same  moss-covered  apple-tree  in  the  sunny 
orchard ;  will  turn  her  bright  eye  up,  down,  round  on 
all  sides,  and  then  flash  off  to  snap  up  a  fly  that  has 
ventured  too  near  her  station,  as  coolly  as  if  she  had 
never  crossed  the  sea  at  all,  or  basked  in  the  sunshine 
of  a  tropical  sky. 

In  May  the  magnificent  anthem  of  the  nightingale 
fills  with  melody  the  Surrey  lanes.  . 


20  By  Leafy  Ways. 

In  May  the  exquisite  song  of  the  blackcap  half 
tempts  us  to  fancy  that  he,  after  all,  is  the  chief  of 
singers. 

It  is  in  May  that  our  wandering  musicians  delight 
us  with  their  sweetest  lays. 

But  though  the  world  is  long  in  waking  from  its 
winter  sleep,  there  are  signs  that  tell  us  spring  is  near. 

'  The  leaf-tongues  of  the  forest,  the  flower-lips  of  the  sod  : 
The  happy  birds  that  hymn  their  rapture  in  the  ear  of  God,' 

cheer  our  souls  with  the  unmistakable  promise  of  the 
coming  May. 

The  trees,  indeed,  are  bare,  and  the  leaves  of  most 
of  them  will,  for  weeks  to  come,  still  remain  fast  sealed 
within  their  purple  buds.  But  the  branches  of  the 
elm,  whose  delicate  twigs  stand  clear-cut  in  exquisite 
tracery  against  the  sky,  are  fretted  with  powdery  blos- 
soms. The  swaying  boughs  of  the  larch  are  jewelled 
with  bright  crimson  tassels.  The  downy  plumes  of 
the  willow  scatter  gold  upon  the  dusky  moths  that 
crowd  in  the  twilight  about  their  honeyed  fragrance. 
The  amber  buds  of  the  chestnut  are  unfurling  into 
soft  green  fans,  though  it  will  be  long  ere  the  broad- 
armed  trees,  hung  all  over  with  their  pyramids  of 
blossom,  hum  like  mighty  hives  with  the  music  of  the 
bees.  The  tall  poplar  is  already  touched  with  points 
of  gold,  that  shimmer  in  the  sunlight  until  the  whole 
tree  is  like  a  trembling  flame. 

The  copses  are  aglow  with  life  and  colour.    Patches 


The  Promise  of  May.  21 

of  wood-anemones  are  scattered  like  drifted  snow- 
under  the  bushes,  with  here  and  there  among  them 
the  brilliant  colour  of  the  early  orchis. 

The  thickets  have  a  tinge  of  vivid  green  ;  and  all 
around  there  springs  a  forest  of  bright  pointed  leaves, 
heralds  of  the  bluebells  that  in  May  will  gather  in  a 
purple  mist  far  and  wide  in  the  cool  green  shadows. 

Daffodils  have  long  been  in  their  prime,  and  still 
flame  among  the  thickets,  and  wander  out  through  the 
straggling  hedgerow  into  the  pastures  round  the  old 
manor-house, 

Till  the  broad  meadows  seem  to  blaze — 
Fields  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold. 

Primroses  cluster  thick  along  the  banks,  and  all  the 
lanes  are  conscious  of  their  soft  perfume.  Violets, 
nestling  in  the  cool  rank  herbage  along  the  edge 
of  the  copse,  betray  themselves  by  their  fragrant 
breath. 

Even  the  cold  heart  of  the  city  feels  the  generous 
glow ;  the  sunny  slopes  of  the  Riviera  are  plundered 
of  cool  white  lilies,  bright  anemones,  and  sweet  nar- 
cissus, to  light  the  grayness  of  the  London  streets. 

But  in  accents  plainer  than  the  mute  faces  of  the 
flowers,  the  voices  of  the  birds  are  full  of  the  coming 
of  the  spring.  And  everywhere,  in  all  the  country- 
side, undismayed  by  sullen  skies  and  bitter  weather, 
the  light-hearted  minstrels  swell  their  merry  throats 
with  music  all  the  live-long  day.  The  happy  skylark, 


22  By  Leafy  Ways. 

poised  high  on  quivering  wings,  scatters  over  the  fields 
his  floods  of  melody  from  earliest  dawn,  till 

'  Pallid  evening  twines  her  beaming  hair 
In  duskier  braids  around  the  languid  eyes  of  day.' 

The  actual  time  that  a  skylark  remains  on  the  wing 
is  but  brief.  The  bird  usually  descends  after  a  flight 
of  from  five  to  ten  minutes — rather  less  than  more. 

Quite  different  are  the  ways  of  the  woodlark,  whose 
rich  but  broken  warble  is  uttered  from  time  to  time  as 
he  soars  in  wide  circles,  sometimes  half  a  mile  in 
diameter,  and  he  will  stay  in  the  air  for  more  than  half 
an  hour  at  a  stretch. 

The  thrush  and  the  blackbird — two  of  our  finest 
musicians — are  now  at  their  very  best. 

The  robin's  tender  strain,  the  wren's  brief  lyric,  the 
roundelay  of  the  chaffinch,  the  rhythmic  song  of  the 
yellow-hammer,  with  now  and  then  the  laugh  of  the 
light-hearted  woodpecker, — each  lends  its  own  rare 
colour  to  the  chorus. 

But  still  we  are  only  on  the  threshold  of  the  season. 
We  look  away  from  bare  brown  branches,  and  from 
wet  April  fields,  whose  red  is  just  melting  into  green, 
to  the  flowery  month  of  May.  In  May,  at  least,  the 
sky  is  blue  and  fields  are  fair.  Then  these  sober 
meadows  will  be  jewelled  with  golden  cowslips.  Then 
the  wild  cherry  will  light  with  its  pearly  blossoms  the 
depths  of  the  dusky  coppice;  the  hedges  will  be 
crowned  with  the  splendour  of  the  hawthorn. 

Down  in  the  lowlands  the  ditches  will  glow  with 


The  Promise  of  May.  23 

blight  marsh  marigolds,  and  on  the  banks  will  gather 
in  a  soft  lavender  cloud  '  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo- 
flowers.' 

Alas !  when  May  has  come  with  all  its  bloom  and 
sweetness  we  shiver  in  the  cool  twilight,  and  sigh  for 
the  sun  of  summer  and  the  green  canopies  of  June 
We  look  in  vain  for  the  leafage  of  the  elm,  we  miss 
the  perfume  of  the  lime.  We  think  that  after  all  it 
must  be  in  June 

'  When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad, 
And  all  the  trees  are  green.' 

Ah  !  it  is  the  old  story  : 

'  Life  still  ebbs  away. 
Man  is  ever  weary,  weary, 
Waiting  for  the  May. ' 


A    RIVER    PATH. 

T  N  the  pleasant  month  of  May  the  flyfisher  begins, 
by  many  a  mountain  stream,  to  ply  his  gentle  craft. 
The  angler,  reappearing  as  he  does  each  spring  like  a 
bird  of  passage,  returns  like  the  home-coming  swallow 
to  the  well-beloved,  secluded  haunt. 

And  now  perchance,  as,  with  rod  in  hand,  he  turns 
his  face  once  more  towards  the  scene  of  many  a 
glorious  day  of  toil  and  triumph,  he  pauses  a  moment 
on  the  ancient  bridge  that  spans  the  Dart,  and  leans  over 
the  rude  parapet  for  a  first  glance  at  the  familiar  river. 

The  time-worn  arches  of  the  bridge  are  draped  with 
ivy,  and  the  crevices  of  the  masonry  are  outlined  with 
tufts  of  tiny  ferns.  The  massive  piers  against  which 
the  waters  fret  with  ceaseless  murmur  project  up 
stream  like  rams  of  fighting  ships.  For  these  battered 
buttresses,  about  whose  feet  the  silver  ripples  now  are 
playing  with  soft  caressing  touches,  have  felt  the  shock 


A   River  Path.  25 

of  many  a  willow  trunk  that,  torn  away  from  the  bank 
far  up  the  stream,  has  been  hurled  against  the  stone- 
work with  all  the  fury  of  an  angry  river  whose  peat- 
stained  waters,  swollen  ten  or  even  twenty  feet  above 
their  peaceful  level,  have  left  heaps  of  drifted  rubbish, 
high  and  dry  among  the  alder-tops,  to  mark  the  tide- 
line  of  the  winter  spates. 

Just  in  sight,  at  the  bend  of  the  stream,  is  a  chain  of 
deep  pools,  where  lie  some  of  the  finest  trout  in  the 
river  ;  here  and  there  among  them  no  doubt  a  veteran 
of  stubborn  fight,  wearing  still,  as  trophies  of  victory, 
points  of  rusting  hooks,  and  frayed  ends  of  broken 
collars. 

The  fisherman's  eye  kindles  at  the  recollection  ;  his 
grasp  tightens  on  his  quivering  rod  ;  and,  in  spite  of 
old  experience  and  fixed  resolve,  there  will  flit  across 
his  fancy  visions  of  the  last  struggles  of  that  mighty 
fish,  whose  end  he  has  so  often  planned  in  vain. 

There  have  been  blank  days  in  his  past  records — 
and  blank  days  are  still  in  store  for  him  while  trout 
survive  and  rivers  run — days  of  biting  east  or  coming 
thunder,  when  he  ransacked  his  fly-book  to  no  purpose, 
and  changed  his  cast  in  vain ;  when  he  was  fain  to  lay 
aside  the  useless  rod,  and  stroll  idly  up  the  stream, 
listening  to  the  birds,  or  watching  the  trout  playing  in 
the  clear  shallows. 

But  those  idle  hours  by  the  river  with  its  beauty 
and  its  music,  its  life  and  its  unfailing  charm,  may 
rank  among  his  brightest  memories. 


26  By  Leafy  Ways. 

How  often,  from  the  noble  beech  woods  that  rise 
steeply  from  the  shore,  has  he  listened  to  the  crow  of 
the  pheasant,  and  the  coo  of  the  ringdove  ! 

How  many  a  time  has  there  sounded  in  his  ears, 
above  the  murmur  of  the  river,  the  sudden  cry  of  a 
dipper,  from  his  station  on  a  boulder  out  in  mid- 
stream, his  white  breast  standing  clearly  out  against 
the  moss-covered  stone,  over  its  double  in  the  water 
below  it ! 

The  dipper  is  a  conspicuous  figure  on  these  moun- 
tain streams.  His  dark  coat,  and  snowy  gorget,  his 
loud  clear  cry,  his  musical  song,  his  straight  and 
rapid  flight,  are  as  familiar  to  the  fisherman  as  the  very 
leap  of  a  trout.  His  whole  life  is  passed  on  the  river. 
In  its  waters  he  finds  his  food  ;  on  its  banks  he  makes 
his  home. 

The  dipper,  like  the  wren,  builds  a  domed  nest,  with 
a  scarcely  visible  entrance  at  the  side,  and  vies  with 
that  clever  little  architect  in  the  cunning  devices  with 
which  it  hides  its  habitation. 

Here,  in  a  hollow  in  the  bank,  skilfully  concealed 
among  the  roots  of  a  pollard,  it  is  faced  with  a  few 
dead  leaves.  Now,  behind  a  cascade  of  water,  it  is  a 
pile  of  green  moss,  a  foot  or  more  in  diameter,  that 
looks  as  if  it  had  grown  there  quite  naturally. 

On  a  little  grass  within — sometimes  almost  the  only 
dry  part  of  tie  fabric — are  laid  the  seven  beautiful 
white  eggs. 

Against  the   low   cliff  that   skirts   the   creek   over 


A  River  Path.  27 

yonder,  bounded  by  a  tongue  of  land,  dense  with 
willows  and  birches,  a  dipper  makes  its  nest  every 
year,  under  an  overhanging  root  of  mountain  fern, 
whose  scented  fronds  are  now  just  beginning  to 
uncurl. 

On  the  ground  below  plumed  sedges  cluster  thick, 
and  tufts  of  cool  green  wood-sorrel  nestle  at  the  feet 
of  the  willows.  The  creek  is  alive  with  darting  trout. 
A  yellow  wagtail  is  pacing  daintily  up  and  down  the 
shore. 

Hark  !  the  cry  of  a  dipper.  There  he  goes,  right 
up  to  the  nest ;  but  he  is  off  again  without  pausing  a 
moment,  and  settling  on  a  stone  in  the  swiftest  part  of 
the  river,  he  begins  to  sing — a  loud,  clear,  yet  soft, 
and  altogether  delightful  piece  of  music,  with  tender 
passages  and  half-whispered  love-notes  in  it,  meant  for 
her  ear  alone  who  listens  unseen  from  her  moss-built 
sanctuary.  Now  he  breaks  off  with  the  loud  alarm 
note  that  the  angler  knows  so  well,  and  on  rapid  wing 
sweeps  round  the  bend  of  the  river. 

The  merry  and  innocent  bird  is  still  in  many  places 
ruthlessly  shot,  as  a  destroyer  of  fish-spawn ;  but 
repeated  post-mortem  examinations  have  proved  be- 
yond question  that  its  food  consists  of  small  mollusca 
and  insects — especially  of  the  voracious  larvae  which 
really  are  such  deadly  foes  to  the  ova. 

It  is  a  clever  diver,  using  both  feet  and  wings  under 
water,  like  a  penguin.  It  has  even  been  asserted  that 
the  dipper  could  walk  on  the  bottom  of  a  stream,  as 


28  By  Leafy  Ways. 

easily  as  on  dry  land,  and  the  idea  seems  not  yet 
altogether  abandoned. 

Beyond  the  dipper's  nest  runs  out  a  long  spit  of 
sand,  a  favourite  landing-place  for  the  otter,  whose 
footmarks,  with  those  of  his  brother  angler,  the  heron, 
are  even  now  clearly  printed  on  the  yellow  surface. 

Here  the  path  skirts  a  wide  reach  of  the  river, 
bordered  with  royal  fern  just  bursting  into  leaf,  and 
tall  willow  herbs,  that  give  promise  of  a  fringe  of  purple 
along  the  green  margin. 

A  solitary  sandpiper  starts  up  at  the  approach  of 
footsteps,  and  flickers  down  the  shore,  whistling  his 
three  mournful  musical  notes. 

A  kingfisher  darts  across  the  shining  level  where 

The  swallows  skim  o'er  the  silver  rim, 

And  dimple  the  magic  glass, 
From  the  deeps  below  rise  breasts  of  snow, 

To  meet  them  as  they  pass  ; 
And  .they  flash  and  dip  in  the  ruffled  wave, 

And  a  moment  they  float  and  quiver, 
Through  the  widening  rings,  which  their  purple  wings 

Beat  out  of  the  crystal  river. 

As  the  angler  strolls  leisurely  along  the  dubious 
path  that  crosses  the  sunny  clearings  among  the  thick, 
gray  growth  of  young  oak-trees,  vipers,  basking  on 
stony  banks,  glide  rustling  away  into  the  thickets ; 
startled  rabbits  hurry  under  the  shelter  of  the  luxuriant 
rhododendrons,  whose  warm  belt  of  colour  skirts  the 
bird-haunted  cliffs  which  here  break  the  round  swell 
of  the  valley. 


A   River  Path.  29 

From  the  steep  slopes  of  the  ravine  comes  the  faint 
roar  of  frequent  waterfalls,  rushing  down  unseen 
through  the  still  leafless  wilderness  of  ash  and  oak 
trees— relieved  here  and  there  by  the  bright  green  of 
feathery  larches,  or  a  group  of  sombre  firs,  harbour  for 
crow  and  kestrel. 

In  the  summer-time,  these  headlong  streams  will  be 
breast  high  with  noble  royal  ferns,  lighted  here  and 
there  with  the  red  torch  of  the  foxglove,  and,  like  all 
the  river-side,  set  thick  with  yellow  broom. 

The  sides  of  the  valley  grow  steeper  yet  and  higher. 
It  must  be  full  five  hundred  feet  from  the  gray  tor  up 
yonder  to  the  broken  glimmer  of  silver  that  roars 
along  at  its  feet. 

High  overhead  a  buzzard  sails  in  wide  circles. 
Now,  on  his  mighty  wings,  the  noble  bird  drifts 
leisurely  up  to  the  broad  ledge  where,  safe  beyond  the 
reach  of  all  but  the  most  daring  of  climbers,  his  eager 
nestlings  wait  for  his  return. 

Over  the  rocks  about  the  nest  are  strewn  the  spoils 
of  the  chase — a  ringdove  or  two,  a  hare,  the  remains 
of  half  a  dozen  rabbits,  perhaps  even  a  blackcock. 
For  a  buzzard  that  has  young  to  provide  for  makes  sad 
havoc  in  his  forays,  though  comparatively  harmless  at 
other  times,  and  contenting  himself  for  the  most 
part  with  humbler  quarry,  after  the  manner  of  the 
kestrel. 

About  the  windy  ramparts  of  this  robber  stronghold 
stretch  away  the  breezy  uplands  of  the  moor.  Here 


30  By  Leafy  Ways. 

and   there   rise   the   orderly   masses   of  granite   that 

seem 

'  Piled  by  the  hands  of  giants 
For  god-like  kings  of  old.' 

Here,  the  brown  expanse  is  seamed  with  the  deep 
workings  of  long  forgotten  miners ;  there,  are  faintly 
traced  the  hut  circles  of  still  earlier  dwellers  on  the 
heath. 

Few  figures  now  are  seen  on  these  broad  solitudes, 
beyond  the  wandering  herds  of  ponies.  But  these 
sad-coloured  wastes  that  will  flame  with  golden 
asphodel,  those  leagues  of  dreary  moorland  that  will 
glow  with  the  tender  hues  of  the  heather,  are  the 
favourite  covert  cf  the  blackcock.  Yonder  bright- 
green  morass  set  round  with  sombre  rushes  is  the 
haunt  of  snipe  and  curlew. 

At  times  the  strange  alarm  of  the  ring-ouzel  from  his 
perch  on  some  stunted  thorn-tree  breaks  the  stillness. 
A  pipit  flits  restlessly  among  the  furze.  A  solitary 
raven  wanders  across  the  waste.  Far  up  in  the  blue 
sky  sounds  the  faint  carol  of  a  soaring  lark,  just  audible 
above  the  sigh  of  the  rustling  sedges,  and,  save  for 
these,  there  lies  over  all  the  bare  brown  moorland 
the  silence  of  a  desert. 


BY     LEAFY    WAYS. 


r~PHE   fickleness  of  OUT  English  summer  has  ever 

been  a  theme  for  satirist  and  cynic,  and  of  all 

seasons  of  the  year  June  is  perhaps  the  most  inconstant. 

But  when  she  is  in  her  right  mind  she  is  the  Queen 
of  months  ;  if  others  keep  a  more  even  temper,  no 
other  wears  a  face  so  fair.  And  although  at  times  she 
is  coy  and  wayward  she  is  always  prompt  to  make 
generous  atonement  by  moods  of  added  sweetness. 

No  other  season  can  compare  for  a  moment  with — 

'     .     .     .     .     the  grace, 

The  golden  smile  of  June  ; 
With  bloom  and  sun  in  every  place, 
And  all  the  world  in  tune.' 

Untouched  by  the  scythe  of  the  mower  shines  the 
golden  glory  of  the  meadows. 

The  lanes  are  white  with  hawthorn.  Wild  roses 
blossom  fresh  each  morning  along  the  dusty  hedgerow. 
The  woodland  paths  are  lighted  with  clumps  of  fiery 


32  By  Leafy  Ways. 

lychnis  ;  the  gromwell  adds  a  touch  of  imperial  purple; 
there  is  a  broad  flush  of  valerian  among  the  stones  of 
the  ancient  camp, 

Where  the  brake  and  the  tufted  gra^s  are  high 
On  the  low  mounds  where  warriors  lie  : 
And,  in  the  shade  of  cloisters  dim, 
Unconscious  birds  sweet  requiems  hymn 
Over  the  nameless  slain. 

Peering  out  of  tangled  thickets,  or  clustering  about 
the  feet  of  ancient  trees,  nestle  patches  of  woodruff, 
the  fragrance  of  whose  withered  leaves,  pressed 
among  the  pages  of  some  cherished  book,  calls  back 
memories  of  old  delights,  suggests  new  dreams  of 
love  and  sunshine. 

And  while  woods  and  highways  brighten  thus  under 
the  lavish  brush  of  Nature,  the  clematis  is  twining  its 
white  wreaths  about  our  trellises ;  our  gardens  are 
magnificent  with  the  rich  clusters  of  the  lilac  and  the 
drooping  gold  of  the  laburnum,  and  the  air  of  twilight 
is  heavy  with  their  perfumed  breath. 

The  woods  have  reached  their  prime.  Broad-armed 
beech,  blossoming  chestnut,  and  stately  elm  are  draped 
in  their  perfect  foliage,  their  cool  and  varied  tints 
undimmed  as  yet  to  the  monotonous  tone  of  the  later 
summer.  Noble  oak  trees,  ever  the  monarchs  of  the 
glade,  bear  up  on  their  tall  gray  columns  a  swaying 
roof  of  sunlit  green. 

We  are  apt  to  associate  mistletoe  with  the  oak  ;  but, 
however  it  may  have  been  in  the  days  of  the  Druids, 


By  Leafy  Ways.  33 

not  twenty  oaks  are  known  in  England  on  which  it 
grows  in  our  time. 

Mistletoe  is  particularly  partial  to  the  apple,  but  it 
grows  freely  on  the  hawthorn,  poplar,  mountain  ash, 
and  many  other  common  trees.  It  is  easily  propagated 
by  crushing  a  berry  into  a  crevice  of  the  bark. 
(The  oak  is  very  subject  to  the  ravages  of  insects, — 
sometimes  hardly  a  sound  leaf  can  be  found  on  the 
whole  tree.  Among  its  enemies  are  various  flies, 
which,  by  making  punctures  in  which  to  deposit  their 
eggs,  produce  oak-apples,  and  similar  growths  on  the 
twigs  and  leaves.  One  of  the  commonest,  or  at  least 
most  familiar,  is  the  '  nut '  or  '  Spanish  '  gall  used  in 
making  ink;  but  it  is  not  native  here,  and  has  not 
been  long  known  in  England. 

The  fly  which  causes  the  bright  red  '  currant '  galls, 
so  conspicuous  in  the  early  summer,  furnishes  an 
instance  of  that  strange  phenomenon  called  alternation 
of  generation.  These  galls  in  their  present  state  con- 
tain grubs,  which  in  time  will  turn  into  flies;  but 
these  flies  will  not  resemble  their  parents,  and  indeed 
were  long  classed  in  a  separate  genus.  The  females 
— no  males  have  yet  been  found — deposit  their  eggs 
on  the  underside  of  the  leaves,  giving  rise  to  small  flat 
tufts  called  '  spangles.'  The  flies  which  emerge  from 
these  spangles  will  be  of  the  original  type,  and  by 
puncturing  the  tree  will  again  produce  '  currant ' 
galls.  } 

By  the  time  the  foliage  is  at  its  best ;  when,  lit  with 

3 


34  By  Leafy  Ways. 

flying  gleams  of  sunlight  and  barred  with  soft  blue 
shadows,  and  balmy  with  the  breath  of  trees  and 
flowers,  the  green  vista  of  the  woodlands  is  like  a 
vision  of  enchantment,  we  miss  many  of  the  songsters 
who  but  a  month  ago  seemed  to  have  no  thought  but 
to  fill  the  glades  with  music. 

(_  Most  birds  leave  off  singing,  to  a  great  extent,  when 
their  days  are  filled  with  their  family  cares.  And  now, 
on  every  hand,  from  banks  and  thickets,  and  from 
holes  in  ancient  trees,  come  the  cries  of  hungry 
broods. 

Many  infant  aeronauts  are  ready  for  their  first  flight, 
and  after  standing  long  on  the  edge  of  the  nest,  whose 
circle  has  so  far  been  the  limit  of  their  small  experi- 
ence, and  watching  with  wide  wondering  eyes  the 
skilful  evolutions  of  their  anxious  parents,  the  timid 
children  of  the  air  spread  doubtful  wings  to  fly. 

Some  birds  are  singing  yet.  A  still  unmated  black- 
bird whistles  loud  his  mellow  musical  notes.  The 
rippling  song  of  the  willow  wren  is  as  light  and  breezy 
as  if  no  thought  of  household  cares  could  weigh 
heavily  on  him,  and  as  if  the  dainty  nest  down  there 
on  the  bank  below  him  were  no  concern  of  his.  The 
blackcap,  too,  as  he  flits  here  and  there  in  the  cool 
shadows  of  the  underwood,  still  sings  a  few  rich  bars, 
whose  exquisite  melody  seems  just  in  keeping  with  the 
sylvan  scene.  Overhead,  among  the  branches  of  the 
beech,  wood-warblers  utter  little  gushes  of  song,  and 
the  chiffchaff  calls  all  day  among  the  rocking  tops. 


By  Leafy   Ways.  35 

Now  in  the  far  recesses  of  the  woodland  sounds  the 
coo  of  a  ringdove,  where 

1  In  some  nook  of  shadowed  swaying  greenness, 
her 

.  .  .  calm  voice  deepeneth  the  holy  hush.' 

The  cuckoo  still  is  calling,  but  at  longer  intervals. 
His  utterance  is  less  clear  than  it  was  ;  he  stammers 
now  and  then,  and  his  voice  is  apt  to  fail  him  at  his 
second  syllable.  We  shall  not  hear  him  much  longer. 
He  will  soon  be  silent  altogether,  and  some  moonlight 
night  will  vanish  unseen.  The  young  birds  stay  much 
later  than  their  parents, — even  as  late  as  September. 

In  many  a  little  woodland  circle  the  appearance  of 
a  young  cuckoo,  like  an  elfin  changeling,  has  been 
attended  with  dire  results.  For  one  of  the  earliest 
concerns  of  the  newly-hatched  stranger  is  to  make 
room  for  himself  by  shouldering  his  foster-brothers 
and  sisters  over  the  edge  of  the  nest,  to  perish  miser- 
ably on  the  ground.  He  by  this  means  absorbs  the 
undivided  attention  of  his  nurses,  who,  long  after  he 
leaves  the  nest,  full  grown  and  strong  of  wing,  will 
follow  and  feed  him  ;  and,  with  the  assistance  of  their 
equally  infatuated  friends  and  neighbours,  will  slave 
from  dawn  to  dark  for  their  young  monster,  while 
with  gaping  mouth  and  widespread  wings  he  cries 
unceasingly  for  food. 

Satisfactory  reasons  for  the  parasitic  habits  of  the 
cuckoo  seem  yet  to  seek,  although  it  is  just  a  century 

3—2 


36  By  Leafy  Ways. 

since  Jenner  made  known,  as  the  results  of  careful 
observations,  his  discovery  that  the  young  cuckoo  did 
actually  turn  out  the  other  nestlings,  and  stated  further 
that  a  hollow  in  its  back — which  disappeared  when 
the  bird  was  a  fortnight  old,  was  evidently  intended  to 
assist  in  this  process  of  summary  eviction. 

The  rambler  in  the  greenwood  may  think  himself 
alone,  but-  there  are  many  anxious  observers  of  his 
every  movement ;  keen  eyes  follow  him  as  he  strolls 
unconsciously  along.  A  woodpecker  watches  him 
from  behind  a  sheltering  stem.  A  shrike  leaves  a  half- 
impaled  cockchafer  struggling  on  a  thorn,  and  drops 
silently  into  the  depth  of  the  hedgerow.  A  squirrel, 
lying  flat  along  a  bough  overhead,  peers  curiously  down 
through  his  leafy  covert.  A  party  of  young  weasels, 
rolling  over  and  over  and  purring  like  kittens  at  play, 
pause  in  their  frolic  and  crouch  in  the  long  grass, 
watching  sharply  as  his  steps  go  by. 

A  troop  of  jays,  making  their  first  venture  out  into 
the  great  green  world,  and  crying  querulously  as 
they  leap  lightly  from  tree  to  tree,  catch  sight  of  a 
moving  figure,  and  steal  quietly  away  into  more  distant 
cover. 

By  no  means  so  noiseless  are  the  manners  of  the 
magpie.  A  note  of  alarm  from -one -of -the  old  hands 
is  instantly  answered  from  all  directions  by  the  sharp, 
clear,  and  scurrilous  responses  of  the  whole  excited 
family. 

There  is  never  silence  in  the  woodland. 


By  Leafy  Ways.  37 

In  the  gray  light  of  morning,  long  before  the  first 
faint  flush  of  dawn,  the  magnificent  anthem  of  the 
song-thrush  sounds  triumphant  over  all  the  voices  of 
awakening  earth.  The  songs  of  birds,  the  hum  of 
myriad  insects,  the  rustle  of  innumerable  leaves  fill 
the  air  through  the  long  summer  days. 

And  when  the  sunlight  has  faded  from  the  land- 
scape, 

.     .     .     .     when  the  brooding  twilight 
Unfolds  her  starry  wings  : 
And  worn  hearts  bless  with  tenderness 
The  peace  that  evetide  brings  ; 

when  the  louder  'voices  of  day  are  hushed,  the  ear  is 
conscious  of  softer  sounds — the  little,  ceaseless  stirs 
among  the  leaves,  footfalls  perhaps  of  tiny  night-roving 
creatures;  the  drone  of  a  night-jar  like  a  ghostly 
spinning-wheel  in  the  dim  shadows  ;  a  stave  or  two 
from  some  restless  nightingale;  snatches  of  a  sedge- 
warbler's  song ;  perhaps  even  the  note  of  a  cuckoo.  . 

The  louder  sounds  of  night  are  the  shrill  cries  of 
bats,  that  flutter  like  phantoms  down  the  darkening 
lanes ;  the  faint  halloo  of  some  wandering  owl ;  or  the 
croak  of  a  heron,  flying  over  unseen  in  the  darkness. 


A   RISING    GENERATION. 


'""THROUGH  the  long  days  of  summer,  under  the 
pleasant  skies  of  May-time,  and  in  the  sunny 
weeks  of  June,  day  by  day  fresh  multitudes  of  birds 
leave  their  nests,  and  enter  upon  the  battle  of  life. 

Woods  and  hedgerows  are  astir  with  troops  of  newly- 
fledged  birds,  whose  querulous  cries  and  peculiar  dress 
are  easily  distinguished  from  the  clear  notes  and 
perfect  plumage  of  their  parents. 

What  a  world  of  wonder  meets  the  wide  eyes  of 
these  young  children  of  the  air  ! 

For  some  of  them,  alas  !  what  disenchantment  is  in 
store,  in  the  rains  of  November  and  the  snows  of 
January. 

There  are  birds  who  know  their  fatherland  only  in 

y  '•  f 


A   Rising  Generation.  39 

its  summer  dress  ;  who  leave  us  ere  earth  puts  off  her 
jewels  one  by  one,  before  the  last  roses  wither,  and 
while  the  woodbine  still  scents  the  country  lane.  Well 
for  those  whose  family  traditions  prompt  them  thus  to 
forsake  our  misty  island  for  a  brighter  sky,  and  to  stay 
beyond  the  sea,  until  the  sun  once  more  stirs  the 
pulses  of  the  slumbering  land  ! 

The  nests  on  which  so  much  skill  and  labour  were 
expended  are  in  use  no  longer.  The  green  hammock 
of  moss,  which  far  back  in  the  month  of  May,  the  gold- 
crest  slung  under  a  swaying  branch  of  her  favourite 
fir-tree,  is  empty  now.  The  eight  small  eggs — smaller 
even  than  those  of  some  humming  birds — -have  long 
been  hatched  ;  and  the  tumultuous  crowd  of  fledglings, 
who  wear  no  mark  of  sovereignty  yet,  no  touch  of  gold 
upon  their  tiny  heads,  have  left  the  nursery  for  ever. 

Troops  of  tits,  emerging  from  unsuspected  chinks  in 
walls  and  trees,  are  playing  all  day  long  at  follow  the 
leader  in  the  woods  and  orchards. 

The  tits  are  clever  builders,  all  of  them,  and  few 
birds  choose  such  unlikely  spots  to  build  in. 

The  blue-tit  makes  his  nest  in  a  hole — -often  with  an 
entrance  so  narrow  that  it  will  barely  admit  the 
finger.  But  sometimes  the  spout  of  a  disused  pump 
will  take  his  fancy,  or  an  empty  bottle  hung  in  a  tree 
to  drain.  Now  he  hides  his  handful  of  moss  and  hair 
in  the  pocket  of  the  very  scarecrow,  whose  outstretched 
arms  and  fluttering  vesture  rouse  no  terror  in  his  fear- 
less soul. 


40  By  Leafy  Ways. 

A  pair  of  these  bold  little  birds  lately  took  posses- 
sion of  a  West  Country  letter-box,  and,  regarding  with 
disgust  the  letters  with  which  the  postman  persisted  in 
littering  their  habitation,  they  carried  them  off  as  fast 
as  they  appeared,  and  dropped  them  over  the  neigh- 
bouring hedge — an  irregular  mode  of  delivery  that 
would  have  cost  the  old  postman  dear,  had  not  a  watch 
been  set  and  the  real  culprits  discovered. 

Young  jackdaws,  not  yet  masters  of  the  art  of  flying, 
flutter  from  point  to  point  of  the  cliffs  about  their  nest, 
or  perch  in  noisy  companies  on  the  pinnacles  of  the 
old  cathedral. 

Even  now  the  starlings  are  beginning  to  muster. 
Down  in  the  marshes  there  are  troops  a  hundred 
strong.  In  a  few  weeks,  the  dusky  clans  will  have 
gathered  into  those  vast  armies  whose  orderly  array 
and  skilful  evolutions  are  a  feature  of  the  autumn 
landscape. 

In  a  corner  of  the  orchard,  a  party  of  young  wood- 
peckers, hardly  yet  able  to  fly,  are  climbing  about 
among  the  trees,  digging  into  the  soft  wood,  splitting  off 
pieces  of  loose  bark,  and  bringing  to  light  shining 
chrysalids  and  juicy  caterpillars  lurking  underneath. 

In  their  younger  days,  their  development  is  accom- 
panied, as  might  be  expected,  by  a  rapid  rise  in  the 
temperature  of  their  blood,  which  changes  in  a  single 
week  from  97  deg.  F.  to  106  deg.  F.,  when  they  are 
sufficiently  matured  to  climb  out  of  the  hole. 

Swallows  and  martins,   whose  graceful   flight   and 


A  Rising  Generation,  41 

gushes  of  musical  song  are  so  familiar  earlier  in  the 
summer,  are  busy  with  their  first  broods.  These  will 
soon  be  ready  to  shift  for  themselves,  and  the  parents 
will  then  begin  to  think  about  a  second  family. 

The  swift,  who  is  different  in  nearly  all  its  ways,  and 
indeed  is  not  a  swallow  at  all,  or  even  a  near  relative, 
has  but  one  set  of  eggs  in  the  year — only  two  or  three 
at  that — and  these  take  up  an  unusual  amount  of 
time.  For,  although  hatched  in  June,  the  young  will 
be  fed  by  the  old  birds  almost  until  the  whole  family 
are  ready  to  leave  the  country. 

The  swift  comes  to  us  late  from  his  winter  retreat 
in  Africa,  and,  for  a  month  or  more,  spends  nearly  all 
his  time  in  the  air,  now  soaring  high  overhead,  now 
with  half  a  score  of  dark  companions  careering  round 
his  haunts  with  exultant  screams,  at  a  pace  that 
proves  beyond  dispute  his  empire  of  the  air.  The 
swift  never  intentionally  alights  on  the  ground.  Its 
whole  life,  except  during  intervals  of  rest  or  when 
hatching  its  eggs  or  feeding  its  young,  is  passed  on  the 
wing.  Not  only  is  all  its  food  taken  thus,  but  the 
very  materials  of  its  nest  are  caught  up  as  the  bird 
skims  along  the  ground. 

It  is  not  easy  to  estimate  the  speed  of  flight ;  but  it 
has  been  said  that  a  swallow  can  probably  cover  at 
least  seventy  miles  within  the  hour ;  an  eider  duck 
ninety;  a  peregrine  falcon,  in  pursuit  of  prey,  a 
hundred  and  fifty. 

But  the  powers  of  the  swift  are  undoubtedly  much 


42  By  Leafy  Ways. 

greater.  No  bird  can  pass  him  on  the  airy  highway. 
His  speed  has  been  estimated  at  no  less  than  two 
hundred  and  forty  miles  an  hour.  A  wonderful  per- 
formance, truly,  for  a  bird  whose  weight — although  its 
curved  and  narrow  wings  measure  as  much  as  eighteen 
inches  across  from  tip  to  tip— does  not  quite  reach  an 
ounce ! 

Most  of  the  birds  that  for  half  the  year  haunt  the 
sea-shore  retire  to  a  distance  to  breed  ;  some  to  upland 
moors  inland,  some  to  Norway ;  some  travel  even  as 
far  as  Siberia  before  they  find  a  spot  to  suit  them. 

A  few,  however,  remain,  and  the  ringed  plover,  for 
example,  not  unfrequently  brings  up  her  family  on  the 
edge  of  her  native  beach.  She  makes  no  nest.  In  a 
little  hollow  in  the  shingle  above  high-water  mark  are 
arranged,  with  perfect  symmetry,  four  rather  sharply- 
pointed  eggs,  which,  tinged  with  pale  buff  and  splashed 
with  brown  and  gray,  match  so  well  with  their  sur- 
roundings that  they  easily  escape  the  eye. 

All  along  the  shore  rise  in  broken  outlines  the 
picturesque  sandhills,  among  whose  rustling  sedges  the 
evening  primrose  and  great  sea  convolvulus  bloom. 
Clumps  of  sea-holly,  yellow  poppies,  white  patches  of 
campion  and  masses  of  golden  stonecrop  relieve  with 
their  varied  tints  the  monotonous  piles  of  gray  shingle, 
strewn  with  dry  sea-wrack,  fragments  of  shells,  broken 
spars,  and  all  the  strange  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  an 
ocean  beach. 

A  wide  sweep  of  ribbed  and  yellow  sand,  palpitating 


A  Rising  Generation.  43 

in  the  heat,  stretches  away  to  the  heaving  tide  lazily 
lapping  the  shining  silver  of  the  shore.  In  the  distance, 
dimly  seen  across  the  broad  brown  water,  rise  the  faint 
far  outlines  of  the  hills  of  Devon. 

Suddenly  a  bird  gets  up  with  feeble  flight,  and  utter- 
ing a  cry  of  distress.  It  is  a  ringed  plover.  She  is 
hurt :  follow  her  a  few  paces.  Her  wing  is  broken ;  she 
will  be  easily  caught.  But  still  she  contrives  to  keep 
just  out  of  reach,  and  fluttering  a  few  yards  now  and 
then,  lures  her  pursuer  on  and  on  round  the  point ; 
when,  rising  on  swift,  undamaged  wings,  and  whistling 
a  cool  clear  note  of  triumph,  she  sweeps  away  far 
inland,  and  makes  a  wide  circuit  back  to  where  she 
left  her  little  family  cowering  among  the  pebbles. 

In  the  steep  side  of  the  Holm  that  lies  like  a  gray 
cloud  down  on  the  horizon,  a  brood  of  young  falcons 
are  even  now  looking  down  on  the  clamorous  gulls 
busy  on  the  reefs  below  them.  The  rocky  ledge  is 
strewn  with  fur  and  feathers — relics  of  many  a  red- 
handed  foray. 

The  old  birds  range  far  and  wide  for  their  fierce 
brood.  The  little  farms  on  the  mainland  know  them 
well.  Many  a  young  pigeon  goes  over  from  their 
dovecotes  to  the  island,  in  the  clutches  of  a  peregrine. 

It  is  an  ancestral  nesting  place.  From  this  niche  in 
the  dark  rock,  stained  with  warm  touches  of  lichen, 
hung  with  clusters  of  golden  samphire  with  here  and 
there  a  patch  of  blossoming  thrift  or  a  few  tall  spikes 
of  sea  lavender,  generations  of  these  noble  birds  have 


44  By  Leafy  Ways. 

looked  out  over  the  troubled  sea ;  have  seen  the  sun 
go  down  behind  the  far  horizon,  and  watched  the 
flying  colours  fade  out  of  the  fiery  sky  as  the  world  of 
waters  grew  cold  and  dark  under  the  veil  of  the 
descending  night. 

Traditions  of  this  ancient  haunt  go  back  to  the  high 
days  of  falconry,  when  young  eyasses  taken  here  were 
sent  even  into  Scotland  to  be  trained  for  the  chase. 

No  spoiler  now  harries  their  lonely  eyrie.  He 
must  have  been  a  bold  climber  who  ventured  down 
that  perilous  overhanging  steep,  at  whose  base  leap  up 
for  ever  the  surges  of  the  hungry  sea.  Here,  safe  in 
their  rocky  fastness,  year  by  year  the  fierce  young 
falcons  spread  their  strong  pinions,  and  plunge  down 
from  the  rocky  threshold,  with 

'  The  sudden  scythe-like  sweep  of  wings  that  dare 
The  headlong  plunge  through  eddying  gulfs  of  air.' 


A    COLDBLOODED    RACE. 


T^HE  lover  of  the  country,  knowing  well  by  sight  the 
companions  of  his  woodland  walks,  and  remem- 
bering that  nowhere  else  is  there  so  much  life  as  in 
English  lanes  and  meadows,  is  still  conscious  that  the 
heath  and  the  greenwood  have  many  tenants  whose 
ways  are  wide  apart  from  ours — whose  lives  are  passed, 
as  far  as  most  of  us  are  concerned,  unseen  and  un- 
known ;  timid  creatures  that  hear  afar  off  the  rustling 
of  footsteps  and  steal  silently  away  into  their  secret 
sanctuaries. 

There  are  many  night  prowling  animals  which  are 
rarely  observed  at  all. 

A  fox  is  seldom  seen  except  when  hard  pressed  by 
the  hounds. 

A  badger  does  not  often  see  the  light  of  day  until, 
scratching  and  struggling,  he  is  dragged  ignominiously 
from  his  holt. 

Not  until  dusk  does  the  active  little  hedgehog 
venture  out  to  hold  high  revel  under  the  friendly 
shelter  of  the  night. 


46  By  Leafy  Ways. 

It  is  seldom  that  the  shrew-mouse  is  seen,  though 
the  rustling  leaves  often  betray  its  devious  course,  and 
its  tiny  voice  is  a  familiar  woodland  sound. 

Rarely  does  the  mole  come  up  from  his  under- 
world into  the  glare  of  day,  and  shamble  awkwardly 
across  the  path  that  is  too  hard  to  burrow  under. 

The  stoat  and  the  weasel,  conscious  perhaps  of  a 
black  record,  and  fearful  of  retribution,  hold  them- 
selves aloof,  and  we  seldom  do  more  than  catch  a 
hasty  glimpse  of  a  brown  coat,  and  long,  slender  body, 
as  one  of  the  murderous  race  flees  at  our  approach. 

Even  the  owl  is  more  often  heard  than  seen,  and  it 
is  not  often  that  we  have  the  chance  of  examining  the 
quaint  features  of  a  bat. 

But  there  is  a  whole  tribe  of  wild  creatures  scattered 
over  the  country,  who,  though  not  rare,  are  little  known, 
and  who  must  be  comparative  strangers  to  society  in 
general. 

Frogs  and  toads  are  familiar  enough,  and  the  latter 
are  encouraged  by  all  gardeners  who  know  their  busi- 
ness. Still,  the  toad  is  not  a  general  favourite,  in 
spite  of  the  lustre  of  his  lovely  eyes. 

The  beautiful  newts  that  inhabit  the  horsepond  are 
still  under  the  ban,  and  fearsome  tales  are  current,  in 
country  places,  of  the  terrible  efts  that  will  bite  a  piece 
out  of  your  hand,  and  spit  fire  into  the  wound. 

On  the  dry  heaths  there  are  active  little  lizards,  clad 
in  mail,  like  miniature  alligators,  much  smaller  and 
less  brilliant  than  their  handsome  cousins  who  sun 


A  Cold-blooded  Race.  47 

themselves  on  the  walls  of  Pompeii,  or  bask  on  the 
grassy  slopes  of  Bavarian  hay  fields,  but  still  graceful, 
agile  little  creatures. 

And  there  is  the  slow-worm — a  lizard  without  legs, 
— in  his  youth  an  especially  charming  object,  with  his 
golden-brown  coat  and  black  dorsal  line. 

We  hardly  think  of  ranking  the  turtle  among  our 
fauna,  though  now  and  then  one  of  these  burly 
monsters  has  drifted  by  mistake  into  British  waters. 
One  which  came  ashore  in  Dorset  not  long  ago, 
weighing  nearly  seven  hundredweight,  may  have  been 
washed  overboard  from  a  vessel. 

That  the  little  water-tortoise  of  the  south  was  once 
an  inhabitant  of  our  fens,  empty  shells  remain  to 
testify. 

But  snakes  are  our  most  important  reptiles. 

The  occurrence  of  a  '  new  '  snake  in  Hampshire, 
some  years  ago,  attracted  no  little  attention.  It  was 
the  Coronella  Icevis,  a  common  German  species.  It  is 
still  met  with  occasionally  along  our  southern  coast. 
The  Rev.  J.  G.  Wood  considered  it  slightly  venomous  ; 
but  Buckland  held  the  contrary  view. 

This  snake,  it  may  be  observed  in  passing,  is  the 
only  species  found  in  Malta ;  and  it  is  said,  moreover, 
to  be  the  only  snake  that  can  hold  on  by  its  teeth — a 
very  interesting  fact  when  taken  in  connection  with 
Luke's  account  of  the  beast  that  hung  on  Paul's  hand, 
— remembering,  too,  that  the  word  '  venomous '  does 
not  occur  in  the  Greek  text,  but  was  supplied  by  the 


48  By  Leafy  Ways. 

translators.  The  natives  would  doubtless  be  no  better 
informed  than  our  own  rustics,  who  find  poison-fangs 
in  every  reptile. 

But  Coronella  is  a  rarity, — the  ringed  snake  and 
the  adder  are  the  snakes  of  the  country. 

The  latter  is  not  often  two  feet  in  length  ;  the  former 
seldom  much  exceeds  three.  Country  people  talk  of 
snakes  five  feet  long,  but  the  length  of  an  uncaught 
snake  must  be  regarded  in  the  same  light  as  the  weight 
of  a  lost  fish.  A  snake  forty-five  inches  long  is  seldom 
heard  of. 

The  ringed  snake  is  ever  a  lover  of  the  sun,  and  you 
will  find  him  any  bright  afternoon  in  summer,  basking 
on  his  favourite  south  bank.  Just  over  the  hedge, 
that  skirts  the  old  neglected  orchard,  is  a  fringe  of 
coppice  that  forms  a  safe  retreat  for  him. 

Among  the  tall  cherry-trees  the  blackbird  will  sound 
his  mellow  pipe  as  evening  darkens,  and  when  the 
light  of  sunset  has  faded  from  that  gray  wyall  of  lime- 
stone cliff;  but  just  now  the  birds  are  silent;  they 
have  crept  out  of  the  hot  sun  into  the  cool  covert  of 
the  leaves. 

Tall  Canterbury  bells  peer  out  of  the  hedgerow; 
yellow  St.  John's  wort,  and  pale  blue  scabious  raise 
their  heads  among  the  long  grass. 

Lying  on  the  bank,  half  hidden  in  waves  of  bracken, 
is  an  old  stump  scarred  by  insect-hunting  woodpeckers, 
and  tenanted  by  a  whole  population  of  its  own.  In 
front  of  it  is  a  hollow  where  grass  snakes  love  to  lie. 


A   Cold-blooded  Race.  49 

You  must  move  with  stealthy  tread.  At  the  first 
sound  the  timid  creature  will  be  off,  and  you  will 
hardly  have  caught  sight  of  the  olive-brown  coils  before 
the  long  and  winding  form  has  glided  swiftly  away 
among  the  rustling  bushes. 

He  has  no  weapons  to  rely  on  ;  and  if  disturbed  on 
the  bank  of  a  river  thinks  nothing  of  taking  to  the 
water,  where  his  movements  are  even  more  graceful 
than  on  land. 

There  he  is  !  Beginning  to  move  already.  Lay 
your  stick  gently  down  on  him  and  take  him  up  in 
your  hand. 

He  is  a  beautiful  creature.  His  bright  eyes  and 
glittering  tongue ;  the — to  a  naturalist,  as,  perhaps,  to 
the  unhappy  frog— fascinating  expression  of  his  face  ; 
the  cool  skin — not  slimy,  as  some  suppose,  but  quite 
pleasant  to  the  touch;  the  yellow  collar  round  his 
neck,  and  his  varied  markings,  have  a  charm  in  them 
that  no  one  can  realize  unless  he  has  suffered  one  of 
these  graceful  reptiles  to  twine  itself  about  his  hands, 
fondled  the  smooth  armour  of  its  glossy  head,  and 
allowed  the  long  black  tongue  to  caress  his  finger. 

The  ringed  snake  has  teeth  that  can  draw  blood  if 
he  is  very  much  provoked.  He  seldom  uses  them  in 
defence ;  but  woe  betide  the  frog  whose  hind  leg  is 
once  caught  in  that  fatal  trap  !  There  is  no  escape 
for  him,  and  slowly,  but  surely,  he  will  pass  out  of 
sight,  furnishing  a  sufficient  meal  perhaps  for  weeks. 

The  ringed  snake,  like  all  the  race,  is  fond  of  the 

4 


50  By  Leafy  Ways. 

sun,  but  may  often  be  found  in  a  low-lying  meadow, 
where  among  the  damp  grass  he  may  chase  the  light 
and  active  frog  upon  his  native  heath. 

But  the  adder  haunts  the  dry  hillside,  the  stony 
hedgerow,  the  warmest  corner  of  the  coppice. 

A  favourite  nook  of  his  is  in  a  heap  of  stones 
gathered  up  long  years  ago  by  patient  hands,  in  vain 
attempts  to  reclaim  the  sterile  pasture.  All  around  is 
the  bare  hillside,  dotted  with  masses  of  briar  or  strag- 
gling hawthorn,  on  whose  swaying  boughs  the  warm- 
breasted  linnets  sing  to  each  other  in  the  late  summer 
afternoons.  Here,  patches  of  tall  columbines  cluster 
on  the  edge  of  the  slope.  There,  a  group  of  slender 
orchises  mock  the  shape  and  markings  of  the  bee. 
The  gromwell  twines  its  wandering  sprays  about  the 
stones,  and  its  rich  purple  blossoms  still  shine  among 
the  dark  foliage. 

Yonder  among  the  brambles  is  a  cast  snake  skin, 
good  evidence  that  we  are  near  the  viper's  haunt.  It 
is  almost  perfect,  even  to  the  coverings  of  the  eyes  ; 
but  it  is  inside  out,  just  as  its  owner  wriggled  out  of  it 
when  his  new  mail  coat  was  ready  underneath. 

There's  our  friend  !  his  broad  body  flattened  out  on 
the  warm  ctones,  and  arranged  in  a  wavy  form  that  is 
quite  different  from  the  attitude  of  the  ringed  snake. 
Down  the  middle  of  his  back  is  a  very  conspicuous 
chain  of  black  spots,  forming  a  sort  of  zigzag  line. 

Adders  are  sometimes  said  to  be  deaf.  Certainly 
they  often  permit  a  very  near  approach  without  moving. 


A   Cold-blooded  Race.  51 

Perhaps  the  consciousness  of  power  makes  them  more 
deliberate  than  the  harmless  snake,  which  has  no 
weapon  beyond  the  power  of  emitting  a  not  very 
agreeable  smell.  The  adder  is  much  more  irascible 
too,  and  sometimes  the  first  notice  of  its  presence  is 
given  by  an  angry  hiss. 

Hold  him  down  with  a  stick.  Now  watch  your 
opportunity  and  take  him  up  by  the  tail.  There  is  no 
danger  whatever.  A  snake  so  held  cannot  raise  its  head 
more  than  a  few  inches  towards  the  hand  that  holds  it. 

On  its  head  is  a  mark  like  a  V ;  the  other  way  up 
perhaps  it  might  do  for  A  ;  though  '  naddre '  is  said  to 
be  the  original  spelling,  corrupted  from  '  a  naddre '  to 
'  an  adder.' 

He  will  strike  if  a  stick  is  offered  him,  showing  his 
weapons — two  long  teeth  that  are  generally  folded 
away  along  the  roof  of  the  mouth.  These  make  an 
extremely  fine  puncture,  hardly  visible  at  the  moment. 
Presently  a  pain  sets  in  like  a  bad  wasp's  sting,  ac- 
companied by  a  dull,  throbbing  ache,  soon  extending 
up  the  arm,  while  the  bitten  hand  swells  and  becomes 
discoloured. 

Oil  applied  to  the  spot,  and  ammonia  taken  inter- 
nally, are  the  general  remedies ;  but  the  wound  some- 
times keeps  open  like  a  burn  from  phosphorus,  and 
heals  up  with  difficulty. 

The  bite  of  an  old  adder  in  hot  weather  is  no  doubt 
a  painful  affair,  but  only  some  half-dozen  cases  are  on 
record  in  which  it  has  proved  fatal  to  human  beings. 

4—2 


BY    QUIET    WATERS. 


JUST  as  some  mysterious  impulse  stirs  the  swift, 
who  has  spent  his  brief  summer  in  these  northern 
latitudes,  to  leave  our  shores  in  August,  and  journey 
southward  to  the  far  Soudan,  so  at  the  same  season 
the  old  restless  spirit  impels  the  roving  Englishman  to 
look  out  his  maps,  and  his  Murray  or  his  Baedeker, 
and  join  the  outgoing  stream  of  his  wandering 
countrymen. 

To  one  man  the  beaten  track,  the  comforts  of 
civilization,  and  the  charms  of  society  are  indispensable 
elements  in  the  contemplated  journey. 

Another  hastens  to  lose  himself  among  new  scenes 
and  unfamiliar  manners  ;  he  loves  to  get  away  from 
the  sound  of  English  speech,  and  as  far  as  possible 
beyond  the  range  of  the  telegraph  and  the  post- 
office. 

To  accomplish  these  ends  men  will  cheerfully 
undergo  severe  privations ;  will  face  hunger  and  hard- 
ship among  Alpine  snows ;  will  live  for  weeks  upon 


By  Quiet  Waters.  53 

milk  zn&fladbrod ;  and  will  endure  without  flinching 
the  torments  of  those  clouds  of  mosquitoes  of  which 
it  is  said  that  you  may  write  your  name  in  them  and 
read  it  quite  plainly  for  five  minutes  afterwards. 

But,  without  going  so  far  afield  to  isolate  one's  self 
from  one's  fellows,  there  may  be  found  within  the 
bounds  of  our  own  island  a  little  world  of  quiet  and 
seclusion,  where  life  may  be  made  as  primitive  as  you 
please ;  where  the  railway,  if  not  distant,  is  unseen ; 
and  where  a  postal  delivery  is  a  matter  of  uncertainty. 

The  Broads  of  Norfolk  have  become  very  popular  of 
late,  and  a  whole  fleet  of  craft  of  every  style  of  build 
and  rig  navigate  now  their  devious  waters. 

But  the  yachtsman  is  alone  in  all  the  crowd.  He 
carries  his  sanctum  with  him,  and  when  he  is  disguised 
in  what  he  regards  as  an  appropriate  costume — a 
compromise  between  the  garb  of  a  Normandy  fisher- 
man and  an  English  bargee— he  looks  with  indifference, 
not  unmingled  with  contempt,  on  the  tribes  of  his 
fellow-creatures  who,  on  similar  pleasures  bent,  meet 
him  as  he  sails  along. 

There  are  various  way  of  doing  it.  You  may  carry 
your  party  of  ten  in  the  luxurious  wherry  with  its 
piano  and  the  mirrors  and  satin-wood  of  its  gilded 
saloon. 

You  may  cruise  with  half-a-dozen  jovial  comrades  in 
a  roomy  and  well-appointed  yacht. 

But  best  of  all  is  the  little  craft  whose  fittings  are 
suggestive  of  a  doll's  house ;  where  everything  is 


54  By  Leafy   Ways. 

packed  away  like  a  Chinese  puzzle ;  in  whose  cabin 
it  is  impossible  to  stand  upright ;  on  whose  hard  and 
narrow  bunks  three  kindred  spirits  may  sleep  the  sleep 
of  the  weary  and  dream  of  Tullamore — a  craft  which 
can  go  anywhere  and  do  anything. 

How  refreshing  is  the  cool  air  of  morning,  as  you 
crawl  on  deck  when  the  east  begins  to  brighten  !  The 
mist  is  still  lying  on  the  low  lands  on  either  side,  and 
all  along  the  river  rises  the  soft  grey  vapour. 

Yonder  stands  a  heron,  still,  silent,  and  watchful, 
with  an  eye  to  fish  for  breakfast.  Startled  by  the 
sudden  glimmer  of  a  red  cap,  he  raises  his  long  neck 
a  moment,  then  draws  it  in,  spreads  his  broad  grey 
wings,  and  leisurely  drifts  farther  on  round  the  bend 
of  the  river. 

A  party  of  moorhens  out  in  mid-stream  take  wing 
and  fly  across  to  the  shelter  of  the  reeds,  trailing 
their  feet  behind  them  in  lines  of  broken  silver  on  the 
glassy  surface. 

But  now  the  galley-fire  is  lit.  After  a  time  a 
pleasant  fragrance  of  coffee  begins  to  pervade  the 
yacht. 

On  the  swing  table  in  the  little  cabin  are  arranged 
the  mob  of  odd  cups  and  plates  that  do  duty  for  a 
breakfast  service. 

And  then  the  start  is  made.  Perhaps  there  is  a 
good  wind — two  reefs  in  the  mainsail  even,  a  steady 
man  at  the  tiller,  and  a  ready  hand  on  the  mainsheet. 

The  next  day  may  be  calm.     There  is  no  breath 


By  Quiet  Waters.  55 

even  to  float  the  lazy  ensign.  The  sails  flap  idly  this 
way  and  that.  The  ship  drifts  gently  with  the  stream. 
You  bask  on  the  cabin  roof  with  a  book  in  your  hand, 
or,  perhaps,  a  gun  across  your  knee,  and  reflect  that 
time  was  made  for  slaves. 

There  is  plenty  of  water-way  for  the  yachtsman, 
long  stretches  of  river,  whose  course  doubling  on 
itself  makes  steady  sailing  difficult  at  times,  and 
increases  the  monotony  of  the  broad  level  lands 
bristling  with  windmills  like  the  coast  of  Holland. 

There  is  more  room  on  the  Broads  themselves. 
Fair  sheets  of  water  some  of  them,  with  trim  lawns, 
and  stately  houses,  and  well-timbered  parks. 

Others  less  wide,  encircled  with  noble  trees,  through 
which  show,  here  and  there,  the  red  roofs  of  peaceful 
farms  with  fields  of  ripening  corn  stretching  far  away 
on  every  hand. 

Others  again  are  shallow  and  weedy,  with  low  and 
treeless  shores  fringed  everywhere  with  a  dense  forest 
of  reeds  and  bulrushes,  the  harbour  of  coot  and  moor- 
hen, and  the  sanctuary  for  the  brown  water-rail  who 
loves  to  hide  within  its  shadows. 

For  the  lover  of  nature  and  of  solitude  there  are 
other  lakes,  less  known  and  more  difficult  of  access. 

The  narrow  dyke  half  concealed  by  the  tall  rushes 
will  admit  nothing  larger  than  the  dingy.  Fleets  of 
white  lilies,  at  anchor  in  the  soft  setting  of  their  shining 
leaves,  rustle  against  the  sides  of  the  skiff.  Long 
festoons  of  weed  cling  fast  about  the  oar  blades ; 


56  By  Leafy  Ways. 

perhaps  a  great  mass  of  pond  weed  bars  the  way 
altogether.  Thickets  have  grown  over  the  entrance ; 
the  very  trees  bend  down  into  the  water. 

At  length  we  are  clear.  Round  the  lake  there  rises 
a  green  wall  of  foliage.  The  shore  is  dense  with  tall 
reeds,  in  whose  recesses  rise  the  strange  voices  of 
unseen  water-fowl. 

A  brilliant  kingfisher  flashes  off  from  his  Ration  on 
an  over-hanging  bough ;  a  water-rail  steals  silently 
away  at  our  approach.  A  party  of  crested  grebes 
sailing  in  and  out  of  the  tall  clumps  of  giant  rushes 
utter  strange  warbling  cries.  Sedge-warblers  climb 
about  among  the  slender  stems,  or  balance  themselves 
on  the  feathered  plumes  of  the  sedges. 

Suddenly,  with  a  chorus  of  musical  notes,  a  little 
company  of  birds  alight  close  at  hand  among  the  tops 
of  the  reeds. 

The  soft  and  brilliant  tones  of  their  exquisite  colour- 
ing, and  their  strange  metallic  call-notes  as  they  swing 
from  their  unsteady  foothold  on  the  swaying  stems 
show  them  to  be  no  other  than  bearded  tits,  the  most 
characteristic  birds  of  the  district. 

He  is  a  happy  man  who  is  fortunate  enough  to 
catch  sight  of  these  exquisite  little  creatures  as  with 
graceful,  dexterous  attitudes  they  search  eagerly  for 
food. 

Driven  from  its  haunts  by  the  draining  of  the  fens, 
no  longer  a  tenant  of  the  Essex  marshes,  a  rare 
straggler  up  and  down  the  country,  the  bearded  tit  is 


By  Quiet  Waters.  57 

still  an  inhabitant  of  the  Norfolk  Broads.  It  grows 
rarer  every  year,  and  no  doubt  in  time  will  be  remem- 
bered by  old  inhabitants  with  the  crane  and  the 
bittern,  the  ruff,  and  the  avoset,  whom  science  and 
labour  have  driven  from  their  haunts  among  the 
marshes. 

But  not  alone  for  the  naturalist  and  the  sportsman 
are  there  attractions  among  these  lakes  and  rivers. 
The  eye  of  the  artist  dwells  with  delight  on  the 
ancient  boat-shed,  with  its  rough  and  unhewn  logs, 
and  its  tiles  weathered  to  every  shade  of  red  and 
brown. 

Within  lies  the  battered  skeleton  of  some  nameless 
craft.  A  little  yacht  in  the  creek  close  by  is  nearly 
hidden  by  tall  sedges,  and  flags,  and  forget-me-nots. 

Behind  is  a  group  of  ancient  cottages  about  whose 
gables  vines  cling  lovingly  as  if  with  sheltering  arms. 

Beyond,  on  the  shore,  an  old  fisherman  is  at  work 
tarring  his  house-boat,  which  lies  helpless  on  its  side 
like  some  strange  sea  monster  stranded  by  the  retreat- 
ing tide  ;  while  his  boiling  tar  seethes  and  smokes  as 
he  grimly  stirs  it,  until  he  looks  like  a  figure  out  of 
some  weird  incantation  scene,  and  one  half  expects  to 
see  the  column  of  smoke  grow  denser  and  take  shape, 
and  become  an  Afreet  terrible  of  face  and  speech. 

Then  as  evening  darkens  you  shorten  sail  and 
prepare  to  make  all  snug  for  the  night. 

You  make  the  yacht  fast  to  the  bank  in  the  dark, 
helped  a  little  by  the  moonlight,  in  a  lonely  spot  far 


58  By  Leafy  Ways. 

away  from  sight  or  sound  of  man,  unless  it  be  a  gaunt 
windmill  that  rears  its  spectral  arms  against  the  sky. 

The  lamp  is  lit,  the  red  curtains  are  drawn. 

You  go  on  deck  for  a  last  look  before  turning  in. 
It  is  a  night  of  perfect  quiet.  The  river  is  as  smooth 
as  glass,  and  across  the  broad  reflection  of  the  moon 
the  coots  and  moorhens  appear  for  a  moment  as  they 
paddle  out  from  their  covert  in  the  reeds,  now  clear 
cut  in  ebony  upon  the  polished  silver,  now  lost  again 
in  the  gloom.  Now  and  then  comes  the  croak  of  a 
heron  fishing  on  the  bank,  or  the  leap  of  a  fish  or  the 
splash  of  a  water-rat. 

Night  in  these  solitudes  is  very  still  and  silent. 
There  is  rarely  any  sound  to  break  one's  slumber 
louder  than  the  ceaseless  lapping  of  the  ripples  on  the 
side,  the  weird  cries  of  wildfowl  flying  over  unseen, 
or  the  rush  01  some  belated  sail  going  past  you 
through  the  darkness  like  a  ghost. 


AS    EVENING    DARKENS. 


''HERE    are    many  birds  which    are 
broad   awake  and  busy  from  the  first 
gleam  of  daylight  until  night  comes  down. 
The  flycatcher  is  at  her  favourite  post  early  and 
late ;  from  dawn  to  dark  the  swallows  fly ;  the  brilliant 
dress  of  the  kingfisher  gleams  through  the  twilight 
like  a  touch  of  fire. 

Others,  like  the  woodpecker,  retire  before  sundown. 
But  there  are  many  creatures  who  stir  abroad  only 
under  the  hush  of  night — who  leave  their  haunts  and 
come  out  into  the  world  when  the  afterglow  still 


60  By  Leafy  Ways. 

lingers  in  the  west,  and  mists  are  gathering  along  the 
darkening  hills. 

In  the  gloaming  the  great  book  of  nature  opens  on 
another  play,  with  altered  scenery  and  different  actors. 

Now,  on  a  quiet  reach  of  the  river,  the  otter  sallies 
forth  with  her  cubs,  from  their  fastness  among  the 
willow  roots  under  the  bank  ;  and  they  gambol  and 
frolic  in  the  water,  and  roll  over  and  over  like  kittens 
playing  on  the  hearth. 

There  are  few  destructive  creatures  that  have  not  a 
useful  part  assigned  to  them  in  the  economy  of  Nature ; 
and  even  the  otter,  with  all  his  appetite  for  trout, 
renders  excellent  service  to  the  angler  by  killing  weak 
and  sickly  fish,  and  thus  helping  to  keep  disease  out 
of  the  river. 

Now  all  along  the  bank  the  water-rats  come  out 
from  their  burrows,  and  sitting  at  the  mouths  of  their 
holes,  or  on  the  ledge  that  runs  along  the  edge  of  the 
stream,  eat  their  frugal  supper  of  reeds. 

Now  one  drops  into  the  water,  and  with  nose  just 
visible  above  the  surface,  drifts  noiselessly  to  the 
farther  shore. 

Time  was  when  the  water-rat  was  regarded  as  a 
dangerous  beast ;  a  destroyer  of  fish,  a  plunderer  of 
nests,  a  foe  to  mallard  and  moorhen,  with  a  record 
nearly  as  dark  as  that  of  his  cunning  Hanoverian 
namesake,  of  whom  indeed  he  is  no  relative  at  all. 
But  he  is  a  strict  vegetarian,  and  no  keeper  need 
watch  with  alarm  his  gentle  and  innocent  ways. 


As  Evening  Darkens.  61 

Here  and  there  another  much  calumniated  wood- 
lander,  the  badger,  has  come  out  for  his  evening  stroll. 
In  spite  of  his  dull  grey  coat,  the  white  streaks  on  his 
head  make  him  very  conspicuous  even  in  the  dusk, 
but  he  is  shy  of  being  watched,  and  is  withal  very  fleet 
of  foot,  and  is  not  often  seen  in  the  open. 

The  bats  that  all  day  long  have  been  hanging  by 
their  claws  head  downwards,  and  folded  up  tight  and 
motionless  within  their  leathery  wings,  emerge  from 
dark  niches  in  church  towers,  or  hollows  of  trees,  or 
the  dim  recesses  of  caves,  and  with  noiseless  flight 
flutter  up  and  down,  uttering  now  and  then  that  faint, 
sharp  cry  which  from  its  very  shrillness  many  persons 
are  quite  unable  to  hear. 

Whole  tribes  of  insects  avoid  the  daylight,  and 
become  active  only  in  the  dusk. 

There  are  many  moths  which  fly  by  day — the 
brilliant  red  cinnabar  and  the  glossy  burnet  are  fond 
of  the  sun. 

The  humming-bird  hawk-moth  is  another  daylight 
flier.  Her  attitudes  are  very  suggestive  of  the  bird 
whose  name  she  bears,  and  one  is  not  altogether  sur- 
prised at  her  being  sometimes  mistaken  for  something 
more  highly  organized  than  an  insect.  Now  on  rapidly 
vibrating  wings  she  poises  herself  before  a  flower, 
while  her  long  trunk,  held  straight  before  her  like  a 
beak,  is  plunged  into  the  honey-laden  corolla.  Now 
with  sudden  movement  she  darts  away  almost  too 
swiftly  for  the  eye  to  follow. 


62  By  Leafy  Ways. 

Others  of  her  race  fly  only  by  night. 

The  death's-head  hawk-moth,  with  its  marvellous 
decoration  of  skull  and  cross-bones,  is  seldom  seen 
unless  reared  from  the  great  chrysalis — which  will 
be  turned  up  in  numbers  among  the  late  potatoes. 
Cats  sometimes  bring  this  moth  into  the  house, 
attracted,  perhaps,  by  the  faint  sound  which  the 
creature  makes. 

Now  the  cricket  and  the  grasshopper  hold  high  revel. 

Beetles  of  many  kinds  are  abroad.  Some  of  them 
leave  the  water  and  roam  over  the  country  until  the 
glimmer  in  the  east  warns  them  to  drop  once  more 
into  the  cool  depths.  Another  beetle,  the  glow-worm, 
lights  her  lamp  under  the  hedgerow  to  guide  her  mate 
— a  plain,  brown-coated  little  fellow  who,  though  he 
has  an  advantage  over  his  wife  in  possessing  wings, 
has  no  power  of  giving  light. 

Now  among  the  fallows  sounds  the  shrill  call  of  the 
partridge.  From  the  cool  shadows  of  the  elms  along 
the  edge  of  the  wood  comes  the  pleasant  murmur  of 
the  ringdove.  The  curlews  are  out  along  the  shore. 
The  dark  forms  of  heron  and  wild  duck  drift  across 
the  still  glowing  west. 

The  nightjar  leaves  the  stony,  bracken-sheltered 
corner  in  her  solitary  orchard  where  she  has  lain  close 
the  livelong  day,  and  sails  in  and  out  among  the  trees 
humming  all  the  while  her  strange  and  droning  cry. 

In  the  long  grass  the  corncrake,  too,  begins  his 
harsh  and  ceaseless  call. 


As  Evening  Darkens.  63 

His  is  no  welcome  serenade ;  no  discouragement 
will  daunt  him,  no  power  can  stop  him. 

After  having  been  kept  awake  half  the  night  per- 
haps by  the  monotonous  chorus  of  these  disturbers  of 
the  peace,  you  sally  forth  in  wrath,  bent  on  avenging 
your  troubles  in  the  blood  of  one  of  them  at  least. 
You  creep  stealthily  through  the  long,  wet  grass 
towards  the  spot  where  a  corncrake  is  calling ;  the 
sound  suddenly  changes  its  direction,  and  comes  from 
the  right.  You  alter  your  course.  Now  it  comes 
from  behind  you.  You  turn  angrily  round,  only  to 
hear  it  in  the  next  field.  Wet  and  miserable,  you  go 
back  to  the  house,  while  on  all  sides  of  you  your 
unseen  enemies  raise  their  voices  in  a  malicious  and 
triumphant  chant. 

The  song  of  the  nightingale  is  the  sweetest  of  all 
the  sounds  of  night. 

He  does  not  wait  till  nightfall.  It  is  a  faithful  pic- 
ture that  the  poet  draws — • 

'  A  nightingale  that  all  day  long 
Had  cheered  the  village  with  his  song.' 

But  he  has  long  been  silent  now,  and  if  his  voice  is 
heard  at  all  it  is  only  as  a  harsh  and  angry  cry  at  the 
approach  of  some  intruder  on  his  solitude. 

But  of  all  night-wandering  birds  the  most  familiar 
is  the  owl.  Its  large  eyes  with  their  wonderful 
mechanism  of  bony  rings  for  altering  their  focus  are 
specially  adapted  for  seeing  in  the  dusk.  Its  downy 


64  By  Leafy  Ways. 

plumage,  with  the  edges  of  the  quill  feathers  softened 
so  as  to  look  quite  ragged,  gives  it  the  power  of  noise- 
less flight  as  it  skims  over  the  meadows  to  pick  up 
mice  and  shrews  for  its  quaint  nestlings  in  their  ancient 
tree. 

It  seldom  leaves  fur  for  feather,  but  a  bird  is  no 
doubt  taken  now  and  then,  probably  when  at  roost. 

The  owl  makes  its  home  often  in  no  very  secluded 
spot.  We  pass  and  repass  the  old  elm  that  has  shel- 
tered generations  of  owls  within  its  spacious  hollow, 
and  seldom  think  perhaps  of  the  staid  and  solemn 
family  that  doze  within.  It  is  in  a  grassy  lane,  where 
little  heaps  of  grey  ashes  mark  the  site  of  many  a  gipsy 
encampment. 

These  straggling  hedgerows  are  a  very  paradise  for 
birds.  Along  these  tangled  banks,  fringed  with  broad 
green  hartstongue,  whitethroat  and  willow-wren  weave 
their  fragile  nests. 

A  moorhen  drifting  idly  in  and  out  of  the  reeds  by 
the  shore  of  a  little  pond  by  the  lane  starts  at  our 
approach.  She  quickens  her  pace,  nodding  her  head 
in  time  to  the  strokes  of  her  feet,  flirting  her  white  tail 
up  and  down  as  she  swims.  As  we  pass  the  stile  she 
takes  wing  and  flies  across  the  water  and  splashes 
down  into  the  thick  growth  of  reeds  that  fringe  the 
margin. 

A  little  farther  on  an  old  elm  tree  leans  out  of  the 
hedgerow.  Behind  its  grey  ivy  stems  the  shy  creeper 
builds  year  by  year  her  cosy  nest.  Within  the  gnarled 


As  Evening  Darkens.  65 

and  furrowed  trunk  is  a  great  hollow  worn  by  the  wind 
and  the  rain  ot  many  winters, — me  fastness  of  the 
owl. 

Here,  on  dry  fragments  of  rotten  wood  are  laid  each 
spring  the  round  white  eggs. 

Here,  eacn  evening  the  old  birds  come  out  and  hunt 
in  the  gloaming,  and  answer  the  calls  of  their  friends 
and  neighbours  from  all  the  country  round. 

The  screech  of  the  barn-owl  is  a  weird  and  awful 
sound,  like  the  scream  of  a  murdered  child.  Coming 
suddenly  down  out  of  the  dark  overhead,  it  is  enough 
to  appal  the  stoutest  heart. 

But  there  is  no  terror  in  the  musical  call  of  the 
brown  owl,  heard  in  the  soft  twilight  as  it  floats  down 
from  the  coppice  on  the  hill,  from  the  tall  elms  on  the 
edge  of  the  meadow,  or  in  the  dark  shadows  of  the 
sombre  pines.  In  answer  to  some  far-off  call,  there 
comes  at  intervals  his  soft  halloo,  now  from  yonder 
tree,  now  overhead— a  wandering  voice,  the  phantom 
cry  of  a  bird  unseen  in  the  darkness. 


PARADISE   OF   BIRDS. 


TT  is  late  in  the  month  of  August.  The  hay  harvest 
of  this  half-hearted  summer,  long  delayed  and 
sadly  marred  by  rain,  is  over  at  length.  The  sun- 
browned  mowers  who,  with  measured  steps,  kept  time 
knee-deep  in  the  scented  grass,  swing  their  scythes  no 
more.  The  last  waggon,  piled  high  with  its  fragrant 
load,  rumbling  on  broad  wheels  down  the  narrow  lane, 
has  been  cheered  into  the  stackyard. 

The  fields  are  bare.  Where  but  a  short  month  ago 
was  spread  a  living  carpet,  sweet  scented,  many  hued, 
stirred  by  murmuring  bees  and  the  bright  wings  of 
roving  butterflies,  is  now  a  smooth  monotony  of  green. 

It  is  the  close  of  a  pleasant  chapter  in  the  history 
of  the  year. 

And  now  upon  the  short  sward  the  birds  descend ; 
not  as  of  late,  singly  or  in  twos  and  threes,  but  in 
troops  whose  numbers  swell  from  day  to  day  with 
new  recruits. 

Some   of  these   gathering    flocks — the   clouds   of 


A   Paradise  of  Birds.  67 

starlings,  the  flights  of  finches  and  yellow-hammers — 
are  made  up  of  the  united  families  of  the  neighbour- 
hood. The  armies  that  gather  by  the  shore  -the 
dunlins  and  the  plovers — come  in  from  remote  breed- 
ing stations  and  distant  moorlands. 

There  is  not  much  music  among  the  busy  crowds. 
A  party  of  linnets,  that  alight  among  a  patch  of  thistles, 
twitter  as  they  flit  here  and  there,  in  sweet  and  tender 
notes,  and  chatter  in  pleasant  chorus  as  they  rise  all 
at  once  into  the  air,  but  their  breezy  songs  are  ended 
for  the  season. 

Longfellow  says  of  the  plunderers  of  the  fruit-garden 
that  the  few  cherries  which  they  pilfer 

'  are  not  so  sweet 

As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited  guests 
Sing  at  their  feasts  with  comfortable  breasts  ;' 

but  the  truth  is  that  the  thieves  say  very  little  as  they 
clear  the  bushes,  except  to  quarrel  over  the  spoil;  and, 
save  for  the  cheerful  treble  of  the  robin  and  the  brief 
lyric  of  the  wren,  there  is  little  singing  in  the  harvest 
time. 

Over  the  fields  along  the  river  sounds  all  day  the 
cry  of  the  lapwing. 

Here  a  handful  of  these  handsome  birds  alight  on 
the  fringe  of  sand  which  the  fast  falling  water  is  leaving 
round  a  little  island  in  the  stream. 

Another  troop  spreads  out  like  a  party  of  skirmishers 
over  the  meadow. 

5—2 


68  By  Leafy  Ways. 

Now  one  of  the  old  birds,  standing  on  a  little  higher 
ground  than  the  others,  his  long  crest  clearly  defined 
against  the  sky,  catches  sight  of  the  boat  that  with 
noiseless  oars  glides  gently  down  the  stream.  Hardly 
waiting  long  enough  for  us  to  see  the  bronze  green  of 
his  burnished  wings  he  rises  into  the  air  with  his 
familiar  cry — not  with  the  anxious  solicitude  of  April, 
when  with  every  device  of  feigned  lameness  or 
broken  wing  he  sought  to  lure  away  the  passing 
shepherd  from  the  eggs  or  young  on  the  bare  ground 
near  by ;  but  idly  wheeling  on  his  broad  and 
rustling  wings  over  the  next  hedge  to  seek  quiet 
further  on. 

The  young  birds,  not  yet  familiar  with  mankind, 
and  ignorant  of  the  far-reaching  powers  of  powder, 
linger  awhile,  but  at  length  they  too  take  wing  and 
follow  their  elders — broad  dashes  of  black  and  white 
against  the  bright  August  sky. 

At  the  edge  of  the  field,  where  the  shore  descends 
steeply  to  the  river,  the  bank  is  honeycombed  with 
sand-martins'  nests. 

It  is  a  marvel  how  such  soft  billed  and  feeble  birds 
can  cut  their  way  even  into  this  yielding  material. 
Having  found,  by  experiment  no  doubt,  which  layer  is 
the  easiest  to  work,  they  drive  their  tunnels  to  a  depth 
of  from  two  to  as  much  as  six  feet,  or  even  more, 
straight  into  the  bank.  Not  seldom  has  the  working 
to  be  abandoned  from  the  hardness  of  the  soil ;  but 
when  a  suitable  length  is  reached  a  slight  nest  is  built 


A   Paradise  of  Birds.  69 

at  the  far  end,  where  the  patient  miners  rear  in  the 
darkness  their  little  family. 

Their  labours  are  over  now.  The  old  birds  and 
their  broods  are  out  all  day  together.  Morning  and 
evening  are  spent  on  the  river,  where,  skimming  over 
the  surface  among  the  eddying  clouds  of  gnats — them- 
selves like  gnats  at  a  distance,  each  doubled  by  its 
reflection  in  the  water — they  dip  their  brown  wings 
now  and  then  with  a  light  splash  that  dies  away  in 
widening  rings  of  silver. 

Sand  martins  always  breed  thus  in  communities ; 
and  house-martins  too  are  fond  of  company,  building 
their  nests  by  scores  under  the  broad  eaves  of  a  house, 
or  about  the  arches  of  a  river  bridge. 

The  shore  under  the  sand-martins'  holes  is  fringed 
with  clumps  of  tansy,  among  whose  bright  golden 
flowers  flame  tall  spikes  of  loose-strife,  with  here  and 
there  a  patch  of  yarrow,  or  a  tuft  of  broom. 

On  the  edge  of  the  water  a  couple  of  sand-pipers 
are  searching  the  rubbish  stranded  among  the  pebbles. 
They  rise  on  the  wing  as  we  approach,  the  broad 
touch  of  white  on  their  brown  backs  standing  out 
boldly  on  the  dark  water.  Their  plaintive  whistle  is 
answered  from  the  opposite  shore,  and  two  more  put 
off  to  meet  them  as  they  follow  the  windings  of  the 
river. 

The  sand-piper  is  rather  a  solitary  bird,  and,  like 
others  of  its  race,  mostly  silent,  except  thus  as  it  flits 
to  a  new  hunting-ground. 


70  By  Leafy  Ways. 

Birds  in  general  prefer  company,  and,  even  if  they 
do  not  build  in  communities,  will  associate  in  small 
parties,  if  not  in  flocks,  when  the  breeding  season  is 
over. 

We  are  familiar  with  a  few  special  names  for  these 
companies.  We  talk  of  a  covey  of  partridges,  a  pack 
of  grouse,  a  string  of  teal,  or  even  a  bevy  of  quails. 
But  we  do  not  hear  in  these  days  of  a  walk  of  snipe, 
an  exaltation  of  larks,  or  a  nye  of  pheasants. 

Some  are  quite  exclusive  and  keep  pretty  much  to 
their  own  family  circle. 

Other  birds  again — and  there  are  many  such — are 
not  sociable  at  all.  Thus  the  robin,  with  all  his 
winning  ways,  will  brook  no  rival  in  his  little  territory, 
will  allow  no  other  bird  to  share  his  mistress's  bounty, 
and  will  drive  away,  not  always  without  bloodshed, 
any  who  venture  on  the  forbidden  ground.  He  is  as 
pugnacious  as  a  gamecock,  and,  except  in  the  spring, 
is  generally  alone. 

Herons,  too,  although  they  breed  in  company,  and 
pile  their  broad  nests  thickly  among  the  trees  of  the 
heronry,  are  seldom  seen  in  numbers  away  from  home; 
and  should  a  troop  of  them  go  down  to  the  shore  to 
fish  together,  they  are  as  silent  as  a  party  of  friars, 
and  exchange  no  remarks  at  all  beyond  an  occasional 
croak  as  they  fly  leisurely  homeward  across  the 
moor. 

The  heron  loves  best  the  solitary  stream  that  winds 
its  devious  way  through  the  meadows  past  the  mill. 


A  Paradise  of  Birds.  71 

Ancient  willows  sentinel  its  banks  ;  dark  alders  bend 
down  over  its  waters.  Along  the  shore  the  sedges 
cluster  thick.  Here,  is  a  tuft  of  pale  willow  herb ; 
there,  a  belt  of  late-lingering  forget-me  nots.  From 
far  up  the  stream  comes  the  murmur  of  the  mill. 
Troops  of  cattle  crowd  to  the  shelter  of  the  trees,  or 
stand  knee-deep  in  the  cool  water.  Here,  in  a  quiet 
nook,  is  the  grey  fisherman,  waiting,  silent  and  still, 
for  a  trout  or  an  eel  to  come  within  range  of  his 
merciless  bill.  Here,  on  the  sand,  where  the  moorhen 
and  the  water-rat  have,  left  their  light  footprints,  you 
will  find  the  broad  track  of  the  solitary  heron. 

There  are  many  birds  as  unsociable  as  he.  We  see 
for  the  most  part  one  kingfisher  on  the  brook,  a  single 
crow  in  the  warren. 

Not  the  bird  of  the  Laureate's  stately  verse, 

'  The  many- wintered  crow  that  leads  the  clanging  rookery  home,' 

but  the  lover  of  carrion,  who  has  nothing  in  common 
with  his  orderly  kinsmen. 

The  crowy  is  an  alien.  He  shuns  even  the  society 
of  his  kind.  He  and  his  mate, — for,  like  many  birds, 
crows  are  thought  to  pair  for  life, — build  their  great 
nest  high  in  the  mighty  elm  no  man  can  climb,  in  a 
sequestered  corner  of  the  valley,  or  perhaps  in  the 
heart  of  a  gnarled  and  twisted  thorn-tree  on  the  fringe 
of  the  moor. 

No  bird  will  trust  its  homestead  under  the  shadow 
of  those  sombre  wings,  unless  perchance  it  be  a  stout- 


72  By  Leafy  Ways. 

hearted  misselthrush,  who  never  hesitates  to  do  battle 
for  his  own,  and  who  would  show  a  bold  front  even  to 
the  raven. 

The  voice  of  the  crow  harmonises  with  his  character. 
A  harsh  and  sullen  croak  it  is,  uttered  now  and 
then  as  he  wings  his  solitary  way  homeward  from 
some  deed  of  mischief  in  poultry-yard  or  rabbit- 
warren. 

The  true  lover  of  nature  would  plead  even  for  the 
crow,  but  the  tenants  of  the  rookery  please  him  more, 
and  dear  to  his  heart  are  its  varied  scenes  and  sounds. 
He  loves  to  hear  the  clamour  of  the  sable  builders  in 
the  early  days  of  spring ;  to  listen  for  the  first  queru- 
lous cries  of  the  young  birds  in  their  cradles  in  the 
tree-tops ;  to  watch  at  dawn  the  sallying  forth  of  the 
legions  far  out  over  the  country ;  to  hear  their  voices 
in  the  sharp  air  of  morning  from  the  fresh  brown 
earth  of  the  fallow  on  the  hill ;  to  watch  their  dark 
figures  on  the  meadow  where  the  withering  turf  betrays 
the  presence  of  unseen  enemies  beneath. 

The  farmer  watches  them  well  pleased.  Even  if 
they  have  a  way  of  paying  themselves,  and  are  not 
always  so  particular  as  they  might  be  to  a  grain  or  so, 
they  are  his  staunch  retainers,  and  do  him  yeoman's 
service. 

Then,  when  the  sun  is  down  on  the  horizon,  they 
leave  the  meadow  and  go  back  to  the  elm  trees  under 
the  hill.  How  clearly,  as  they  wing  their  way  far  up 
on  the  brightening  sky,  their  voices  float  downward 


A   Paradise  of  Birds.  73 

through  the  twilight  air !     How  sharply  cut  their  drift- 
ing figures 

On  broad  wings  steering  home  ; 
As  they  seem  to  sink  o'er  the  shadowy  brink 

Of  the  sea  of  fiery  foam, 
Where  the  sun  has  flung  his  golden  shield 

Over  the  margin  grey  ; 
And  the  cloudy  shore  is  flooded  o'er 

With  a  line  of  gleaming  spray. 


SABRINA    FAIR. 


1  Sabrina  fair, 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave  ; 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair  ; 
Listen  for  dear  honour's  sake, 
Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 
Listen  and  save." 

/~\N  the  upper  reaches  of  the  Severn  the  angler  has 
had  but  a  sorry  time  of  it  in  these  unquiet  days. 

He  looks  sadly  down  upon  a  fluctuating  river,  whose 
brown  waters  rise  and  fall  with  each  change  in  the  un- 
certain weather. 

It  is  the  story  of  the  season.  In  the  drought  early 
in  the  year  the  stream  fell  far  below  its  customary 
level.  Week  after  week  it  shrank  still  farther  away 
from  its  parched  and  crumbling  shores.  The  narrow 
islands  were  bordered  with  a  fringe  of  sand.  Stumps 
of  ancient  trees,  long  submerged  and  black  as  ebony, 
raised  their  dark  heads  above  the  surface.  Patches  of 


Sabrina  Fair.  75 

shingle,  appearing  in  the  shallows,  grew  broader  still, 
until,  uniting  with  the  shore,  they  formed  headlands  in 
the  falling  stream.  The  cattle  strayed  across  to 
pastures  on  the  opposite  bank.  No  salmon  could 
get  up  the  river;  the  fishing  records  dwindled  into 
nothing. 

Then  suddenly  came  the  long  spell  of  rain.  The 
white  pebbles  melted  away  into  the  rising  stream. 
The  islands  narrowed  down  and  disappeared.  Shiver- 
ing aspens  stood  far  out  in  the  rushing  river.  Then 
at  last  the  fish  came  up.  Then,  in  deep  pools  and 
quiet  reaches,  a  glimpse  of  silver  and  a  mighty  plunge 
told  that  a  noble  salmon  had  leaped  from  the  brown 
flood  into  the  air. 

The  rain  ceased  at  length,  and  the  stream  went 
down.  The  islands  showed  again  their  disconsolate 
faces.  Ere  long  the  sodden  grass  grew  green  and  fair, 
with  a  tinge  it  were  faint  praise  to  liken  to  the  emerald. 
The  grey  willows  shook  the  moisture  from  their  mud- 
stained  leaves.  The  water  rats  watched  the  deluge 
drain  away  from  their  thresholds,  and,  sitting  each 
under  the  shadow  of  his  own  patch  of  meadowsweet, 
they  munched  their  meal  of  reeds  in  calm  content. 
The  hopes  of  the  fisherman  revived. 

But,  alas !  the  river  has  not  made  up  its  mind. 
There  is  a  storm  somewhere  far  away  among  the 
mountains,  and  again  the  stream — which  never  yet 
has  fallen  to  its  summer  level — swells  high  and  covers 
up  the  reappearing  way-marks. 


76  By  Leafy  Ways. 

And  in  days  like  these,  when  the  water 'which  has 
fallen  a  foot  by  the  evening  has  risen  two  by  the 
morning,  the  rod  is  of  little  use.  The  salmon  will  look 
at  nothing  you  can  offer  them.  The  trout  and  the 
grayling  make  no  sign. 

In  days  like  these,  when  the  creel  hangs  on  the  wall 
and  the  rod  stands  idle  in  a  corner,  the  angler  turns 
for  solace  to  the  river. 

He  takes  his  fate  with  calmness  born  of  long 
schooling  in  the  gentle  craft,  nor  bemoans  with  useless 
plaint  the  fickleness  of  the  weather. 

There  is  always  the  river,  with  the  charm  of  its 
beauty  and  the  magic  of  its  song.  The  angler  is  like 
the  gentle  scholar  the  poet  sings  of,  who 

1  — wandered  away  and  away 

With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse  ; 
And  she  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe.' 

Many  a  lyric  has  she  sung  to  him  in  the  solitudes  of 
mountain  streams.  Many  a  time  has  she  soothed  his 
soul  with  the  babble  of  the  water,  the  voices  of  the 
birds,  the  very  breath  of  flowers.  And  so  here,  along 
this  stately  river,  he  turns  for  solace  and  companion- 
ship to  the  timid  creatures  whose  bright  eyes  watch 
him  shyly  from  the  shore  ;  he  listens  to  the  great  voice 
of  the  stream  itself,  here  round  some  bold  headland 
rushing  strong,  there  rustling  softly  in  its  fringe  of 
reeds. 

It  is  at  dawn  that  the  river  shows  its  fairest  face. 


Sabrina  Fair.  7? 

The  day  opens  with  the  soft  haze  so  ominous  of  heat. 
Mist  is  still  rising  from  low-lying  fields  ;  trailing  cloud? 
linger  round  the  crest  of  the  Wrekin. 

From  the  rude  landing-stage  yonder  a  party  of  fisher- 
men are  putting  off  in  their  punts.  If  the  rod  is  use- 
less there  are  other  ways  of  catching  fish,  and  these 
men  in  their  clumsy  boats  may  contrive  to  net  a 
salmon  or  two  when  the  oldest  hand  would  throw  his 
flies  in  vain.  But  it  is  hard  work  at  the  best  of  times, 
and  this  year  has  hardly  been  worth  the  candle — that 
is  to  say,  the  licence,  and  the  net,  and  the  worries  of 
the  water-bailiff. 

The  punts  are  worked  against  the  stream  until  a 
point  is  reached  above  the  place  where  late  last  night 
a  salmon  rose.  The  net  is  paid  out.  Each  boat  takes 
an  end,  and  the  two  then  manoeuvre  so  as  to  sweep 
the  pool. 

In  order  to  frighten  the  fish  from  getting  past  the 
ends  of  the  net,  stones  are  thrown  into  the  water,  and 
a  great  splashing  made  with  an  instrument  called  a 
'  splanger  ' — a  pole  with  a  disc  of  leather  at  the  end. 
The  net  is  drawn  slowly  into  a  shallow. 

It  is  often  blank.  Now  and  then  a  pike,  or,  better 
still,  a  large  trout  is  taken.  Less  frequently  the 
plunging  corks  betray  to  the  eager  eyes  of  the  fisher- 
men the  presence  of  better  game,  and  as  the  net  comes 
in  a  great  gleam  of  silver  proclaims  that  the  king  of 
fish  is  entangled  in  the  fatal  meshes. 

To-day  there  are  two  of  them.     The  old  man  in 


78  By  Leafy  Ways. 

command — whose  weather-beaten  face  seems  in  keep 
ing  with  the  battered  timbers  of  his  boat — well  pleased 
with  his  morning's  work,  gets  in  his  tackle. 

The  long  poles  are  stowed  in  the  punts,  paddles 
are  got  out,  and  the  old  craft  drift  easily  down  the 
swift  current  and  disappear  round  the  bend  of  the 
river. 

Our  way  lies  up  the  stream.  It  is  six  o'clock  :  a 
glorious  morning.  Broad  meadows  glisten  in  the  dew. 
Long  fields  of  grain  are  touched  with  the  gold  of 
sunrise. 

Suddenly  three  wild  ducks  get  up,  with  a  prodigious 
splash,  as  we  pass  their  quiet  creek. 

A  swan,  startled  by  the  sound,  spreads  his  broad 
white  pinions,  and  paddles  along  the  surface  with  his 
great  black  feet  for  fifty  yards  before  he  gets  up  way 
enough  to  trust  to  his  wings  alone. 

A  couple  of  dab-chicks  farther  on  look  round,  and 
then  dive  out  of  sight,  coming  up  a  dozen  yards  nearer 
shore.  Then  showing  their  brown  heads  a  moment 
only  they  dive  again,  and  are  seen  no  more,  coming 
up,  no  doubt,  in  the  safe  shelter  of  the  willow- 
beds. 

A  little  company  of  goldfinches,  which  just  now 
were  carelessly  chattering  to  each  other  in  their  sweet 
and  breezy  way,  stop  suddenly  and  begin  to  scold 
violently.  A  blackbird  rushes  screaming  out  of  a 
thicket,  where  a  wren  takes  up  the  cry  and  sounds  an 
alarm  at  the  top  of  her  little  voice.  A  score  of  shrill 


Sabrina  Fair.  79 

little  tongues  join  in  the  chorus,  and  excited  little 
figures  leap  from  Chough  to  bough  in  hot  pursuit  of 
some  unseen  enemy. 

There  he  goes  !  a  stoat  cantering  along  under  the 
bank.  Entirely  oblivious  of  the  hue  and  cry  over- 
head, he  pauses  here  to  look  into  a  rabbit-hole,  there 
to  peer  into  a  hollow  tree.  Now,  quickening  his  pace, 
he  disappears,  while  the  angry  birds  follow  him  still 
with  cries  of  warning  and  indignation. 

Yonder  is  a  man  fishing  from  a  coracle.  It  is  a 
strange  coincidence  that  he  has  moored  it  just  where 
Watling  Street  passes  the  river  by  a  long  disused  ford. 
Under  the  picturesque  little  village,  that  clusters  round 
the  square  tower  on  the  rising  ground,  lies  buried  an 
old  Roman  town.  Broad  fields  of  barley  ripen  round 
the  ruins  of  the  little  forum.  Fragments  of  sculptured 
stone  are  built  into  the  cottage  walls.  The  very  gates 
of  the  churchyard  are  hung  from  pillars  that  adorned 
a  heathen  temple. 

For  ever  silent  are  the  streets  of  that  little  colony. 
Unknown  to  that  dark-bearded  fisherman  the  dress, 
the  speech,  the  manners  of  its  lost  inhabitants.  But 
the  boat  he  uses  is  the  boat  they  used.  Its  build,  its 
paddle,  the  manner  of  carrying  it,  have  outlasted  the 
changes  of  twenty  centuries. 

By  this  time  the  sun  is  high  in  the  heavens.  It 
deepens  the  warm  red  of  the  cliffs  by  the  river,  and 
whitens  the  canvas  of  the  little  tent  some  rovers  have 
pitched  by  the  shore. 


8o  By  Leafy  Ways. 

The  birds  that  chattered  to  each  other  as  the 
morning  broke  are  silent  in  the  heat. 

A  kingfisher  shoots  like  an  arrow  down  the  stream 
from  his  perch  on  an  old  punt  moored  under  a  willow. 
A  few  pigeons  drop  lazily  into  the  ripening  barley.  A 
greenfinch  alone  breaks  the  stillness  with  that  drowsy 
monotone  so  suggestive  of  indolence  and  sleep. 

Not  every  peerless  dawn  is  followed  by  a  perfect 
evening.  As  the  sun  sinks  in  the  west  great  masses 
of  cloud  that  have  long  been  gathering  up  from  the 
southward  spread  themselves  rapidly  over  the  sky. 

A  few  scattered  drops  mar  the  silver  of  the  water. 
Then  all  the  wide  landscape  is  veiled  by  the  grey  robe 
of  the  rain.  The  river  darkens  under  the  leaden  sky, 
while  gusts  of  fierce  wind  ruffle  it  here  and  there  with 
sudden  flaw.  Dark  and  chill  the  evening  closes  in, 
a  lurid  glare  in  the  west  showing  where  the  sun  went 
down  in  the  angry  cloud-wrack. 

Or  it  may  be  that  the  day  of  sunshine  is  crowned 
by  a  peaceful  twilight. 

No  breath  of  wind  disturbs  the  silver  stream.  The 
low  banks  with  their  fringe  of  grey  willows  ;  the  cattle 
ruminating  in  the  meadows ;  the  tall  trees  by  the  shore  : 
the  few  soft  clouds  that  float  across  the  clear  wide 
heaven,  are  reflected  in  the  magic  mirror  so  faithfully 
that  none  can  tell  where  the  image  ends  and  reality 
begins.  In  the  wake  of  the  boat  the  water  is  broken 
into  alternate  lines  of  silver  and  crimson.  A  belt  of 
fir  trees  stands  cold  and  dark  against  the  glowing  sky. 


Sabrina  Fair.  81 

Turtle-doves,  disturbed  by  the  sound  of  oars  from 
their  roost  among  the  alders,  flutter  noisily  from  their 
cover  and  vanish  hastily  on  whistling  wings. 

Bats  skimming  over  the  surface  like  phantom 
swallows,  and  dipping  down  now  and  then  with  light 
touch  even  to  the  water,  appear  for  a  moment  as  they 
pass  the  boat. 

But  now  the  light  on  shore  looks  down  with  welcome 
gleam.  The  current  will  take  us  to  our  moorings. 

'  Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar 
While  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more/ 


ALL    AMONG   THE    BARLEY. 


1  Come  out,  'tis  now  September  ; 

The  Hunter's  Moon's  begun, 
And,  through  the  wheaten  stubble, 

Is  heard  the  frequent  gun. 
All  among  the  barley, 

Who  would  not  be  bliihe  ; 
When  the  free  and  happy  barley 

Is  smiling  on  the  scythe  ?' 

are  on  the  threshold  of  the  Autumn.  Plain 
to  read  are  the  tokens  of  its  coming. 

Faint  and  shadowy  lines  they  are  which  divide  the 
other  seasons.  Winter,  ever  parting  with  reluctance, 
is  apt  to  steal  back  in  the  night  and  leave  his  traces 
even  on  the  flowers.  It  were  hard  to  say  when  Spring 
has  ended  and  the  Summer  set  in. 

But  the  story  of  Autumn  is  traced  in  bolder  letters 
and  more  certain  tones — its  closing  chapters  even  in 
characters  of  fire. 

The  air  grows  sharper  and  the  days  draw  in.  Longer 
still  and  heavier,  lies  the  dew  upon  the  glistening 
fields.  Grey  mists,  that  after  sundown  brood  over 


All  among  the  Barley.  83 

rich  meadows  like  a  fate,  linger  in  the  valleys  like 
phantoms,  sullenly  retiring  in  the  dawn. 

On  the  hills  there  is  the  first  warm  flush  of  heather 
that  ere  long,  mingling  its  purple  with  the  gold  of 
blossomed  furze,  will  spread  over  all  the  broad  brown 
slopes  like  the  light  of  sunset. 

The  trees  begin  to  brighten  as  under  the  touch  of 
Midas.  The  chestnut  wears  a  tinge  of  gold.  The 
hedgerow  is  lighted  with  the  fiery  foliage  of  the  maple. 
The  sombre  tones  of  the  woodland  are  broken  with 
the  young  leafage  of  the  oak  —  here  pale  yellow 
changing  into  bronze,  there  tipped  with  points  of 
vivid  scarlet. 

Each  gust  of  wind  shakes  down  a  shower  of  rustling 
leaves,  and  in  all  the  air  there  is  an  odour  of  decay. 

There  are  broader  dashes  of  colour  in  the  fields  of 
corn,  where,  under  the  magic  of  the  sunlight,  green  is 
melting  into  gold. 

Through  the  long  wet  summer  days,  while  the 
ruined  hay  lay  rotting  on  the  ground,  while  the  farmer 
was  chafing  at  the  dull  weather  and  the  frequent  rain, 
the  corn  grew  tall  and  strong,  until  the  well-filled  ears 
wanted  nothing  but  a  spell  of  sunshine. 

But,  alas !  the  sky  is  leaden  and  the  air  is  chill. 
Ours  is  a  fickle  climate,  at  the  best.  We  know  it  well. 
The  only  disappointments  it  brings  us  are  for  the  most 
part  when  the  weather  turns  out  better  than  we  had 
hoped  for. 

We  have  long  abandoned  to  the  poets  the  praises 

6—2 


84  By  Leafy  Ways. 

of  the  Spring.  We  expect  her  to  play  us  false.  We 
are  only  too  well  accustomed,  after  welcoming  the 
early  primrose,  to  see  the  landscape  whiten  under  a 
fresh  touch  of  winter.  Yes — 

'  The  Spring,  she  is  a  young  maid 
That  does  not  know  her  mind.' 

And  Summer  too,  for  all  the  charm  of  her  early 
dawns  and  pleasant  twilights,  her  green  draperies,  and 
her  wealth  of  flowers  : — 

1  And  Summer  is  a  tyrant 
Of  most  unrighteous  kind.' 

But  we  look  away  from  all  this  with  the  firm  faith 
that  Autumn  at  least  will  be  kind  to  us : — 

'  But  Autumn  is  an  old  friend 
That  loves  one  all  he  can, 
And  that  brings  the  happy  barley 
To  glad  the  heart  of  man.' 

Btrt  now  that  Autumn  is  upon  us  he  deals  his  gifts 
with  grudging  hand.  The  days  are  marred  with  rain. 
The  half-reaped  fields  are  waiting  for  the  sun. 

Now  and  then  there  comes,  as  if  by  way  of  conso- 
lation, a  perfect  day,  a  day  of  Royal  weather.  Across 
the  fair  blue  overhead  drift  a  few  soft  dreamy  clouds. 
A  flood  of  warm  sunshine  fills  the  landscape. 

Breast-high  among  the  bearded  grain  stand  groups 
of  stalwart  reapers.  On  every  side  there  rises  the 
whirr  of  the  machine  or  the  clink-  of  a  whetted  blade. 
Along  the  hedgerows  wait  the  feathered  gleaners — 


All  among  the  Barley.  85 

linnets  and  buntings  in  sober  brown,  finches  and 
yellow-hammers  in  green  and  gold. 

Here,  too,  are  the  footprints  of  the  Autumn.  Here, 
among  the  waving  grain  rises  the  graceful  corn-cockle; 
there,  a  patch  of  scarlet  poppies  shines  like  fire  among 
the  wheat. 

In  the  meadow  beyond,  the  long  grass  is  aflame 
with  autumn  crocus — a  blaze  of  colour  in  the  noon- 
day heat ;  in  the  twilight  a  soft,  warm  glow  that  clings 
about  the  slopes  and  in  the  hollows  like  a  purple 
mist. 

The  field-gate  opens  into  a  lane,  an  old  British 
roadway  from  ancient  lead-mines  to  the  sea. 

The  camps,  that  guarded  once  the  line  of  devious 
road,  look  down  from  the  hills  out  of  waves  of  bracken, 
now  just  tinged  with  brown,  or  through  the  orderly 
ranks  of  feathery  larches.  A  flint  arrow-head,  a  frag- 
ment of  pottery,  or  a  rusted  weapon  turned  up  here 
or  there,  are  all  that  remain  of  the  bold  defenders  of 
these  ruined  ramparts. 

Centuries  of  wheel-tracks  have  worn  down  the 
ancient  way  far  below  the  level  of  the  adjoining  fields. 
The  elms  that  lean  over  it,  through  whose  interlacing 
boughs  filters  a  dim  green  light,  are  centuries  old. 
Within  their  cavernous  chambers,  generations  of  owls 
have  lived  and  died.  Troops  of  birds  find  shelter  in 
their  friendly  hollows.  The  straggling  hedgerows, 
unchecked  by  bill  or  pruning-hook,  are  draped  with 
trailing  masses  of  bryony,  or  with  pale  festoons  of 


86  By  Leafy  Ways. 

bindweed  whose  great  white  flowers  hang  like  lamps 
among  the  graceful  sprays.  Brilliant  butterflies  flit 
here  and  there  among  the  brambles,  and  yonder  skims 
along  on  rustling  wings  that  deadly  foe  of  theirs  the 
dragon-fly,  brave  with  burnished  mail. 

Among  the  thickets  cling  the  torn  and  empty  nests 
from  which  long  since  the  eager  broods  took  wing. 
Not  all  are  yet  abandoned ;  there  are  still  unfledged 
nestlings  clamouring  for  food.  But  the  world  is 
peopled  with  the  new  generation ;  young  robins  with 
breasts  spotted  like  thrushes,  and  betraying  their  real 
parentage  by  their  speech  and  attitudes  alone ;  gold- 
finches, too,  resembling  their  brilliant  parents  only  in 
the  yellow  of  their  wings ; 

4  Linnet  and  meadow-lark  and  all  the  throng 
That  dwell  in  nests  and  have  the  gift  of  song.' 

Under  the  bank  among  the  broad  fronds  of  harts- 
tongue  shine  the  bright  berries  of  the  arum.  The 
hazel  boughs  are  heavy  with  rich  brown  clusters. 
The  dogwood  and  the  wayfaring  tree  are  beginning 
to  show  their  bold  autumnal  tints.  The  mountain- 
ash  is  fully  in  its  prime,  hung  all  over  with  bright 
scarlet  bunches — welcome  feast  to  noisy  missel-thrush 
and  wandering  ouzel. 

-  There  is  an  orchard  hard  by,  a  wilderness  of 
neglected  trees,  whose  sour  fruit  just  shows  a  tinge 
of  yellow.  It  is  the  very  sanctuary  of  birds.  Here 
the  jay  hides  her  nest ;  here  the  woodpecker  finds, 
year  by  year,  the  solitude  he  loves. 


All  among  the  Barley.  87 

From  the  old  gate  yonder  we  can  watch  unseen. 
A  bullfinch  flashes  out  of  the  hedge  as  steps  approach, 
and  flies  a  little  way  down  the  lane,  uttering  at  intervals 
his  soft  low  notes.  He  is  a  handsome  bird,  with  his 
glossy  black  crown,  his  dark  slate-coloured  back,  and 
the  exquisite  flush  of  rose  upon  his  breast.  But  for 
mischief  there  are  few  to  match  him.  A  party  of  bull- 
finches, united  in  a  league  of  evil,  will  strip  the  buds 
from  your  favourite  cherry  before  you  are  down  in  the 
morning ;  not,  as  might  be  thought,  because  they  are 
attacked  by  insects ;  not  even  stopping  to  eat  them, 
but  scattering  them  in  hundreds  wantonly  on  the 
ground. 

From  an  old  elm  overhead  sounds  the  flute-like 
twitter  of  a  nuthatch ;  and  next  moment  he  appears 
coming  down  the  stem  head  foremost,  hammering 
now  and  then  in  likely  places  with  a  noise  it  seems 
impossible  so  small  a  bird  could  make,  in  the  hope  of 
turning  up  some  juicy  larva  for  his  dinner. 

Listen  a  moment  to  that  faint  note  in  the  next  tree, 
like  the  feeble  cry  of  a  young  bird.  It  is  the  creeper, 
another  climbing  bird  ;  less  dextrous  indeed  than  his 
neighbour,  but  with  charming  ways.  Unlike  the  nut- 
hatch, he  cannot  climb  down  the  trunk,  but,  having 
begun  at  the  bottom  and  pursued  his  journey  to  the 
topmost  branches,  pausing  here  and  there  on  the  way 
to  examine  the  crannies  of  the  rugged  bark  with  his 
long  curved  bill,  he  flies  off  to  the  foot  of  another  tree, 
and  begins  again. 


88  By  Leafy  Ways. 

Like  the  woodpecker,  he  is  very  clever  at  keeping 
out  of  sight,  and  if  alarmed  will  glide  round  to  the  far 
side  of  the  tree  without  apparently  taking  any  notice 
of  the  intruder,  and  until  the  danger  is  passed  takes 
good  care  to  keep  behind  a  branch  in  his  upward 
course. 

On  a  low  bough  of  an  apple-tree  near  by,  sits  a  fly- 
catcher, motionless  and  forlorn.  He  is  a  stranger 
here.  He  comes  from  farther  north,  and  is  on  his 
way  to  join  his  companions  over  the  sea. 

Short,  indeed,  is  his  stay  in  this  country.  The 
flycatcher  that  built  this  summer  in  your  trellis  has 
already  departed,  and  his  familiar  perch  on  the  garden 
seat  will  know  him  no  more  until  May  comes  round. 

He  was  not  the  first  to  leave  us.  The  dark  figure 
of  the  swift  has  long  since  vanished  from  the  sky. 
Even  the  swallows  who  remain  are  but  a  handful 
compared  with  the  great  hosts,  that,  after  lengthened 
mustering  and  high  debate,  have  started  for  the  south. 


THE   MISTY    MOORLAND. 


TT   is  the  very  heart  of  the  moorland.     On  every 
hand  there  stretch  away  to  the  horizon  the  hills 
and  hollows  of  the  wide  expanse. 

The  heather  is  in  its  glory.  Over  the  slopes  there 
hangs  a  rich  glow  of  colour,  here  brightened  by  the 
vivid  tones  of  the  heather,  there  softened  with  the 
fainter  purple  of  the  ling.  Here  a  belt  of  gorse  adds 
a  touch  of  gold ;  there  the  ground  is  covered  with  the 
sober  green  of  the  bilberry.  Scattered  over  the  peat 
earth  that  shows  darkly  through  the  rents  of  the 
imperial  mantle,  are  patches  of  grey  lichen,  tipped 
with  scarlet. 


go  By  Leafy  Ways. 

But  there  is  an  overpowering  sense  of  dreariness 
among  it  all  Greater  than  the  wonder  of  its  beauty 
is  the  wonder  of  its  solitude.  Vainly  the  eye  wanders 
over  the  landscape  searching  for  some  signs  of  life  ; 
there  is  no  man,  no  moving  thing.  The  faint  cry  of 
some  restless  bird  serves  but  to  emphasize  the  silence. 
It  is  the  stillness  of  the  desert. 

At  far  intervals  the  ground  rises,  gently  at  first,  then 
more  abruptly,  with  here  and  there  a  block  of  granite 
lifting  its  grey  head  above  the  heather.  At  last  the 
hill  is  crowned  with  a  huge  mass  of  seamed  and 
weathered  stone  that  towers  over  the  country  like  a 
robber  stronghold.  Round  its  base  soft  mosses  gather 
thick.  A  multitude  of  plants  have  found  footing  on 
its  narrow  ledges.  Harebells  hang  their  graceful 
blooms  among  the  rifted  stone.  Niches  in  the  rocky 
walls  are  the  haunt  of  dove  and  jackdaw.  Here  on 
the  windy  summit  rests  the  wandering  raven,  and 
with  keen  eye  looks  down  on  his  wide  hunting- 
ground. 

The  heath  near  by  is  broken  with  long  hollows,  the 
work  of  an  ancient  race  of  miners,  of  whom  all  other 
trace  has  vanished. 

Here,  too,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  wilderness,  is  a 
haunt  of  birds.  In  the  steep  face  of  rock,  that  softened 
by  the  touch  of  time  bears  now  no  mark  of  miner's 
tool,  the  rockdove  breeds.  Quiet  as  our  footsteps  are 
upon  the  springy  turf,  the  faint  sound  disturbs  the 
timid  tenants.  Suddenly  from  the  narrow  cleft  comes 


The  Misty  Moorland.  91 

a  rush  of  grey  wings,  and  a  rockdove  flies  hastily  up 
the  hollow  to  the  open  moor. 

The  sound  startles  a  ring-ouzel  from  his  feast  among 
the  berries  of  a  rowan,  whose  roots  seem  anchored 
in  the  living  rock.  His  loud  '  Tack,  tack  '  of  alarm  is 
answered  by  a  comrade,  and  the  two  wary  birds  fly  off 
and  settle  farther  on,  their  white  gorgets  standing  out 
clearly  against  the  dark  heather.  This  is  their  native 
heath.  Under  the  tall  plants  that  fringe  the  hollow 
their  nest  was  built — except  for  its  situation,  like  that 
of  the  blackbird  ;  and.  not  even  an  expert  can  distin- 
guish with  certainty  the  eggs  of  the  two  species. 

The  outcry  of  the  ouzels  has  disturbed  a  wheatear, 
who  with  a  flicker  of  his  white  tail  alights  on  the  top 
of  a  heap  of  ore  just  visible  among  the  bracken. 

A  sober-clad  meadow  pipit  rises,  too,  with  feeble 
note.  Her  call  is  answered  by  a  pair  of  stone-chats, 
who,  perched  on  the  top  of  a  furze  bush,  keep  up  for 
some  minutes  an  uneasy  chorus  of  '  Chat,  chat '  of 
wonder  at  this  invasion  of  their  haunt.  The  stone- 
chat  is  a  smart  little  fellow,  with  his  black  head,  his 
neat  white  collar,  and  his  ruddy  breast.  Few  birds 
are  more  clever  in  concealing  their  nests,  and  although 
by  no  means  rare,  the  eggs  are  not  easily  discovered. 
The  birds  move  away.  The  sounds  grow  fainter,  and 
then  cease.  Once  more  there  is  silence  in  the  deserted 
hollow. 

These  workings  have  long  been  abandoned.  This 
part  of  the  moor  is  far  from  the  regular  mining 


92  By  Leafy  Ways. 

districts.  No  clank  of  machinery  breaks  the  stillness 
of  these  solitudes  ;  no  sounds  of  labour  startle  the 
timid  children  of  the  heath. 

On  the  high  ground  to  the  eastward  stand  the 
tall  chimney  and  grey  walls  of  a  modern  engine- 
house.  But  the  dismantled  buildings  are  empty  and 
deserted.  The  crumbling  walls  know  no  tenant  but 
the  merlin,  see  no  visitor  but  the  rabbits  of  the 
warren. 

There  are  few  paths  across  the  waste.  The  rough 
track  to  the  mine  is  almost  the  only  one  an  ordinary 
eye  would  discover. 

An  ancient  way  over  the  moor  marked  by  tall 
granite  crosses  has  been  long  disused.  The  crosses 
remain  ;  the  road  itself  is  forgotten. 

No  man  knows  the  district  if  he  cannot  find  his  way 
without  map  or'  compass.  But  in  a  Dartmoor  mist 
the  oldest  hand  is  helpless.  With  brief  warning,  close 
and  thick  the  grey  veil  comes  down.  Every  landmark 
is  blotted  out ;  nothing  is  visible  but  a  few  yards  of 
ground.  There  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  sit  down  and 
wait ;  you  cannot  cross  the  Fox  Tor  Mire  in  mist. 
The  path  is  hard  enough  to  follow  in  full  daylight ; 
now,  a  false  step  might  mean  destruction.  Tradition 
says  that  many  a  hapless  wayfarer  has  perished  in 
that  dismal  hollow. 

It  is  better  now  the  mist  is  changing  into  rain. 
The  light  grows  clearer.  From  the  shelter  of  that 
great  boulder  you  can  watch  the  storm  driving  across 


The  Misty  Moorland.  93 

the  desolate  moorland,  hear  the  rush  of  wind  among 
the  heather. 

The  bright  green  of  the  peat-moss,  with  that  dark 
fringe  of  rushes,  marks  the  course  of  a  hidden  stream 
— one  of  the  countless  channels  that  vein  the  bosom 
of  the  hills.  Here  in  winter  the  snipe  will  lie  in 
scores.  It  is  a  place  beloved  of  wild  duck,  too  ;  and 
just  now  there  may  be  a  curlew  lingering  about  the 
scene  of  his  birth. 

By  this  time  his  fellows  have  gone  down  to  the 
shore,  and  are  stalking  along  by  the  edge  of  the  sea, 
whose  rim  is  at  this  moment  just  visible  on  the 
horizon. 

Out  on  the  moor  we  may  find  the  nest.  Not  much 
of  a  nest  indeed,  but  there  are  the  empty  shells  still 
lying  tucked  one  inside  another. 

The  cry  of  the  curlew  is  a  musical,  if  a  mournful, 
sound.  But  the  bird  has  another  note,  and  the 
voices  of  a  company  flying  together  are  not  unlike 
those  of  a  pack  of  dogs.  Stories  are  current,  among 
the  hills  of  Devon,  of  a  ghostly  huntsman,  who  with 
his  viewless  pack  careers  across  the  sky  on  wild 
nights  in  winter.  The  belated  moorman  hears  in  the 
call  of  the  curlews  the  ominous  baying  of  the  '  whisht- 
hounds,'  and  shudders  as  he  hears.  For  it  is  death 
to  see  them.  Ruin  will  fall  upon  the  house  over 
which  they  linger  in  their  flight. 

The  rain  has  ceased.  The  clouds  clear  off  as 
swiftly  as  they  formed  ;  the  sky  is  blue  and  fair.  On 


94  By  Leafy  Ways. 

the  sky-line  a  quaint  figure  on  a  rough  pony  beckons 
us  up  the  slope.  It  is  Bill  Mann,  best  known  of 
Dartmoor  worthies.  A  flash  of  lightning,  that  thirty 
years  ago  set  his  little  house  ablaze,  has  left  him  lame  ; 
but  he  is  a  true  son  of  the  chase  for  all  his  lameness, 
and  knows  every  fox  and  badger  holt  in  the  country 
side,  and  every  likely  pool  on  the  river.  Between  his 
toothless  gums  is  his  inch  of  black  clay.  Round  his 
battered  hat  are  coiled  carefully  his  favourite  flies. 
It  is  not  a  bad  morning,  he  says.  He  has  marked 
down  a  pack  of  '  black'ock  '  on  that  rise  in  front. 

He  loosens  the  dog.  After  a  bound  of  recognition 
the  setter  goes  off  across  the  moor  at  the  top  of  his 
speed,  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  a  blackcock 
within  forty  miles. 

All  at  once,  he  stops  short,  stiffened  in  every  limb ; 
to  use  old  Bill's  favourite  expression,  '  as  stiff's  a  gig.' 
We  advance  with  firm  and  eager  tread,  our  minds 
intent  upon  the  dog. 

There  is  a  rustle  among  the  grass  of  a  little  hollow, 
right  under  his  nose.  Up  they  get,  with  a  great 
rush,  two  noble  cocks.  They  are  down,  right  and 
left. 

The  dog  just  glances  at  them.  His  work  is  not 
done.  There  are  more  yet.  Slowly  he  advances 
some  twenty  yards  further,  his  eyes  riveted  on  a 
great  patch  of  ling  in  front  of  him.  There  they  go, 
a  cock  and  two  hens.  The  hens  go  by  >  we  give 
them  law.  Except  by  accident,  they  are  never  shot. 


The  Misty  Moorland.  95 

But  the  cock  has  met  his  fate.  He  is  down.  He  flutters 
a  moment  and  is  still. 

Is  there  any  man  who  never  knew  the  pang  that 
follows  swiftly  on  the  first  keen  flush  of  triumph,  when, 
with  a  flutter  of  failing  wings,  the  noble  bird  falls, 
struck  down  in  mid-career;  when  the  wanderer  of 
the  air  is  dashed  a  helpless  heap  of  feathers  on  the 
ground  ? 

Is  there  anyone  who  never  felt  a  touch  of  remorse 
as  the  beautiful  eyes,  fast  fading  in  death,  gazed  up  at 
him,  bold  and  fearless  to  the  last  ? 

The  day  wears  on.  After  an  hour's  camp  in  a 
sunny  hollow  Bill  finds  us  another  pack.  We  do 
well.  Ten  fine  cocks  in  all  are  slung  on  the  saddle 
of  the  little  pony,  and  there  is  an  '  accident '  or  two 
hidden  away  somewhere  among  the  baggage. 

It  is  a  good  day's  work.  Ten  birds,  and  five-and- 
twenty  miles  of  moor. 

As  we  strike  across  the  heath  and  gain  the  old 
miners'  path,  and  plod  cheerily  homeward  down  the 
hilly  road,  we  wonder  which  is  the  greater  happiness, 
which  the  nobler  sport — five  brace  of  birds  earned  by 
honest  toil  among  these  noble  wilds,  or  five  hundred 
shot  down  with  the  aid  of  a  battery  of  guns,  an  army 
of  beaters,  and  all  the  machinery  of  a  sanguinary 
battue  ? 

We  have  reached  the  edge  of  the  moor.  The 
dusk  is  settling  down  over  the  lonely  hills.  Long 
since  the  sun  went  down  behind  the  low  horizon.  The 


96  By  Leafy  Ways. 

mist  of  evening  rising  faint  and  grey  is  reddening  in 
the  afterglow.  Purple  shadows  gather  on  the  darken- 
ing hills. 

'  Silence  and  twilight,  unbeloved  of  men, 
Creep  hand  in  hand  from  yon  obscurest  glen. 


FOOTPRINTS    ON    THE    SAND. 


T  N  the  evening  of  the  year,  when  in  the  woodland 
walk  we  miss  the  feathered  wanderers  who,  in  the 
silence  of  these  moonlight  nights,  are  returning  to  their 
winter  haunts ;  when  no  longer  round  our  gables  floats 
the  graceful  figure  of  the  swallow ;  when  the  twitter  of 
the  martins  sounds  no  more  from  their  nests  beneath 
the  eaves,  there  reappear  along  the  sea  those  familiar 
forms  whose  presence  lends  such  an  added  charm  to 
the  beauty  of  the  shore. 

The  sea  is  to  all  men  ever  a  delight.  There  are 
none  who  do  not  love  its  musical  rhythm,  its  moods  of 
storm  and  calm,  the  wonder  of  its  rest,  the  terror  of  its 
rage. 

Greater  still  is  the  charm  which  the  lover  of  nature 
finds  at  every  step  along  its  shores.  He  loves  the 
weeds,  of  bright  hue  and  delicate  form,  which  the 
waters  have  torn  up  from  quiet  depths  and  heaped 
among  the  shingle  ;  the  strange  creatures  stranded  by 
the  tide ;  the  myriad  shells  that  ocean  strews  along 

7 


98  By  Leafy  Ways. 

the  sand.  The  very  markings  by  its  edge,  lines  a 
child  at  play  might  have  traced  with  aimless  finger,  are 
to  him  a  picture-writing  on  the  sand,  in  which  he 
reads  the  story  of  tiny  creatures  whose  home  is  in  the 
waves. 

But  dearer  than  all  must  ever  be  the  children  of  the 
air.  Plainest  among  these  fleeting  records  are  the 
imprints  of  their  feet.  Here,  run  the  devious  tracks  of 
the  sandpipers  that  troop  along  the  tide.  There,  in 
bolder  characters  are  the  footprints  of  the  curlew. 
Scattered  over  the  mud  are  marks  that  tell  how  oyster- 
catcher  and  redshank,  gull  and  heron,  wandered  up 
and  down  at  sunrise,  and  left  their  sign-manual  on  the 
yielding  surface. 

In  the  early  summer  these  traces  are  but  far  between. 
In  the  summer-time  we  look  in  vain  for  the  white 
wings  of  the  gull ;  we  see  no  clouds  of  sandpipers ;  we 
seldom  hear  the  whistle  of  the  plover.  As  spring 
advanced  they  left  us.  Gradually  disappearing  from 
the  low  shores  where  they  had  spent  the  winter,  they 
gathered  round  their  crowded  breeding  haunts.  They 
mustered  in  armies  in  the  sanctuary  of  seagirt  rocks ; 
they  gathered  in  clouds  along  the  steep  sides  of 
northern  cliffs. 

Some  birds  that  haunt  the  wintry  beach  are  content 
with  the  limits  of  our  islands.  Others  find  a  summer 
resting-place  no  nearer  than  the  shores  of  Siberia. 
But  among  them  are  some  who  do  not  move  at  all ; 
they  spend  the  summer  here ;  they  watch  the  vanish- 


Footprints  on  the  Sand.  gg 

ing  dunlins ;  they  see  the  flocks  of  scaup-ducks  dwind- 
ling from  the  waters  of  the  bay ;  they  hear  no  more 
the  clamour  of  the  gulls.  But  no  impulse  of  migration 
stirs  their  pulses.  They  are  content  to  stay,  and  by 
some  solitary  shore  where  no  passing  steps  disturb 
their  peace  find  a  spot  where  they  may  rear  their 
broods. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  tidal  river  whose  mud-stained 
waters  go  to  swell  the  brown  flood  of  Severn,  a  mass 
of  limestone  lifts  its  head  above  the  sea.  The  rugged 
surface  is  stained  with  vivid  lichens.  Tufts  of  purple 
thrift  bloom  among  the  sea-worn  stones.  The  golden 
samphire  that  clusters  about  the  summit  shows  the  top 
safe  above  the  highest  tides.  It  is  the  sanctuary  of 
the  oyster-catcher.  The  fisherman,  drifting  down  the 
stream  to  visit  his  nets  out  at  sea,  knows  well  the 
watchful  figures  of  the  old  birds,  whose  conspicuous 
dress  and  long  red  beaks  are  so  plain  to  see ;  but  the 
solitude  of  the  little  islet  is  rarely  broken,  and  year  by 
year  the  oyster-catchers  lead  down  their  little  family  to 
the  river.  There  is  no  nest  of  any  sort.  The  eggs 
are  laid  on  the  bare  rock;  but  sometimes  the  birds 
are  found  to  smear  them  with  mud,  as  if  prompted 
by  past  losses  to  take  some  precautions  for  conceal- 
ment. 

On  the  mud  that  borders  the  island  stands  a  shel- 
drake— a  handsome  bird,  whose  brilliant  plumage 
makes  him  at  once  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
striking  figures  of  the  shore.  Here  at  least  he  is  a 

7—2 


loo  By  Leafy  Ways. 

constant  resident,  though  many  of  his  clan  come  to  us 
only  in  the  winter  to  escape  the  rigour  of  a  northern 
climate.  Here,  however,  he  finds  a  solitude  to  suit 
him,  and  stays  the  summer  through.  Somewhere  by 
the  shore  he  and  his  handsome  mate,  whose  colours 
are  as  striking  as  his  own,  make  their  nest  in  a  rabbit- 
burrow.  At  the  far  end,  sometimes  as  much  as  ten 
feet  from  the  entrance,  some  dry  grass  is  collected ; 
over  this  the  duck  arranges  a  bed  of  down,  which,  like 
the  eider,  she  tears  from  her  own  body.  Frequently 
the  hole  is  among  the  sand-hills,  in  the  shelter  of 
sedge  and  sea  holly. 

But  often  a  safer  retreat  is  found  in  the  side  of  a 
hill  looking  down  on  the  sea.  Walled  about  with  low 
limestone  cliffs,  whose  grey  buttresses  stand  out  here 
and  there  among  green  waves  of  ivy,  lies  a  little  hollow 
open  to  the  south.  The  bushes  that  clothe  its  sides 
are  dwarfed  and  twisted  by  the  wind.  The  plants  that 
cover  the  parched  and  scanty  soil  are  such  as  flourish 
in  the  sand.  Here,  is  a  patch  of  pale  green  wood- 
sage  ;  there,  a  belt  of  rustling  flags, — not  the  bright  iris 
of  the  meadow-brook,  but  a  flower  of  dusky  hue  with 
sombre  colouring  and  unpleasing  odour.  Here,  the 
yellow  mullein  lifts  its  tall  head  above  the  bracken. 
Here,  hang  the  dark  bells  of  the  deadly  nightshade. 
There,  open  the  pallid  petals  of  the  henbane.  Plea- 
santer  to  the  eye  is  the  white  rock-rose,  which  in  this 
favoured  spot  scatters  its  rare  and  graceful  blossoms 
broadcast  over  the  rugged  ground.  Bright  butterflies 


Footprints  on  the  Sand.  101 

love  the  hot  sun  that  beats  into  the  hollow.  Grass- 
snakes  warm  their  cold  hearts  upon  the  heated  sand. 

A  stoat  peers  out  from  a  heap  of  stone,  his  head 
and  fore-paws  just  visible  over  the  edge  of  a  rock. 
After  a  brief  inspection  he  seems  to  think  it  best  to 
avoid  us ;  he  drops  down  and  disappears. 

Here  are  the  traces  of  the  sheldrake — a  few  white 
feathers,  tinged  with  brown,  scattered  on  the  grass  at 
the  entrance  of  one  of  the  many  rabbit-holes  which 
here  honeycomb  the  hill.  Far  inside  the  burrow  the 
empty  eggshells  still  lie  about  the  disordered  nest. 

Long  ere  this  the  brood  stole  out  into  the  daylight, 
and  made  their  way  down  the  rocks  into  the  sea. 
Sometimes,  in  the  early  morning,  you  may  meet  them 
on  the  river.  The  old  bird  leads  the  way,  the  downy 
brood  all  in  line  after  their  anxious  parent.  At  the 
sound  of  oars  she  turns  her  head  a  moment,  and  then 
quickens  her  pace.  At  her  signal  the  little  fellows  in 
her  wake  hurry  after  her  as  best  they  may.  The  old 
bird  at  last  reluctantly  takes  wing.  Her  brood  hasten 
this  way  and  that,  dodging  the  oar-blades  put  out  to 
stop  them,  and  scudding  along  with  quick  beats  of 
their  little  paddles.  Some  scramble  up  the  bank. 
Others  swim  out  to  sea  down  the  rapid  current. 

The  rocky  side  of  the  down  is  a  favourite  haunt  of 
the  kestrel.  Even  the  peregrine  lingers  here,  and  his 
keen  wings  are  still  the  terror  of  the  farm  under  the 
hill.  More  satisfactory  tenants  are  the  daws  who 
crowd  about  the  cliff-ledges  and  build  their  nests  by 


IO2  By  Leafy  Ways. 

scores  in  the  old  rabbit-holes  along  the  fringe  of  the 
down. 

The  wide  stretch  of  mud  below,  whose  shining  levels 
wear  a  tinge  of  purple  in  the  failing  light,  is  dotted 
with  the  figures  of  unnumbered  gulls,  some  in  the  pure 
white  and  grey  of  perfect  plumage,  others  still  wearing 
the  brown  dress  of  youth.  Redshanks  and  curlews 
wade  among  the  pools  and  line  the  edges  of  the  long 
hollows  worn  by  the  retreating  tide. 

A  troop  of  dunlins  fly  in  close  array  along  the  edge 
of  the  water.  Now  they  settle  down  upon  the  mud. 
Even  at  this  height  their  musical  voices  sound  above 
the  faint  murmur  of  the  waves. 

The  lazy  sea  beyond  them,  scarcely  broken  by  a 
ripple,  stretches  away  to  the  dim  horizon  like  a  sheet 
of  glass.  In  the  golden  splendour  under  the  sinking 
sun  there  lies  becalmed  a  single  sail.  The  sea-line 
melts  into  an  amber  haze,  through  which  shows  now 
and  then  the  faint  outline  of  some  distant  craft. 
Along  the  bold  sickle  of  the  shore  rise  the  broken 
ridges  of  the  sandhills.  Beyond  them  the  blue  lines  of 
far-off  hills.  Between  lie  the  wide  levels  of  the  moor ; 
here,  white  with  peaceful  hamlets  clustering  round  the 
grey  towers  of  ancient  churches;  there,  golden  with 
ungathered  grain,  whose  ripened  sheaves  await  the 
harvest  home. 

On  the  bold  headland  yonder,  whose  rocky  steep  is 
kindling  in  the  light  of  sunset,  a  grey  ruin  looks  down 
upon  the  fruitful  plain.  Round  the  old  walls  there 


Footprints  on  the  Sand.  103 

rolls  a  sea  of  graves.  The  wind  and  the  rain  have 
dealt  but  hardly  with  the  ancient  stones.  No  kindly 
chisel  clears  the  gathering  moss  with  which  Time  has 
blurred  the  rude  inscriptions.  The  iron  tongues,  at 
whose  fierce  summons  all  the  country  rose  to  face  the 
fleet  of  Spain,  hang  silent  in  the  deserted  belfry.  In 
a  corner  of  the  chuchyard,  thick  with  nameless  graves, 
the  form  of  many  an  ill-fated  mariner  whom  the  tide 
has  laid  upon  the  shore,  has  found  a  resting-place  at 
last.  No  headstones  mark  their  rest;  they  lie  un- 
known— 

'  husbands,  brothers,  sons 
Of  desolate  women  in  their  far-off  homes 
Waiting  to  hear  the  step  that  never  comes.' 


THE    PARTING    GUESTS. 


«?-,  VERY  year,  as  autumn  closes  in,  and 
the  air  grows  cool  in  the  long  Septem- 
ber twilights  ;  when  the  still  abundant 
leafage  is  touched  here  and  there  with 
the  shades  of  brown  and  yellow  that 
ere  long  will  ripen  into  gold  and  scarlet ;   even  the 
least  observant  of  us  notice  a  change  in  the  woods  and 
the  lanes,  and  in  the  very  streets  of  the  city. 

There  are  few  who  do  not  miss  at  least  the  swallow. 


The  Parting  Guests.  105 

We  remember,  too,  how  the  cuckoo  grew  hoarse,  and 
fitful,  and  then  silent,  long  ago.  We  are  conscious  that 
it  is  long  since  the  nightingale,  and  the  blackcap,  and 
a  score  of  sylvan  minstrels,  cheered  the  woodland  with 
their  varied  strains.  The  landrail's  inharmonious  note 
has  been  unheard  since  the  early  days  of  summer. 
The  swift  vanished  even  before  the  fire  was  on  the 
leaves. 

One  after  another,  these  and  half  a  hundred  others 
of  our  summer  guests  have  silently  left  their  haunts  in 
field  and  lane  and  woodland  for  a  sunnier  climate  and 
a  warmer  air.  They  vanished,  as  they  came,  by 
moonlight ;  and  the  late  October  moon  will  light  only 
a  few  stragglers  on  their  southward  journey. 

All,  however,  have  not  left  us  yet.  On  roofs  and 
rails,  and  along  the  convenient  resting-place  of  tele- 
graph-wires, troops  of  swallows  are  still  gathering,  with 
no  little  interchange  of  gentle  speech,  and  flutter  of 
careless  wings.  They  are  on  the  eve  of  setting  out  for 
those  far-off  regions  where  no  frost  will  mar  the  genial 
comfort  of  the  sunshine  ;  and  where  no  shortness  of 
provisions  will  drive  them  from  the  ancestral  home- 
stead. 

But  we  may  expect  to  see  them  fairly  often  until  the 
end  of  this  month  ;  a  few  during  October  ;  and,  on 
the  sea-coast  especially,  swallows  and  martins  may  be 
observed  as  late  as  the  end  of  November. 

The  swift  is  much  more  restricted  in  the  time  of  his 
arrival  and  departure.  He  is  seldom  here  much 


io6  By  Leafy  Ways. 

before  May,  and  he  leaves  us  in  the  beginning  of 
August.  Stragglers  may  linger  in  September;  one 
only  has  ever  been  seen  in  November. 

There  is  still  some  uncertainty  with  regard  to  the 
movements  of  the  cuckoo.  He  disappears  from  the 
scene,  to  a  great  extent  at  least,  when  he  loses  his 
voice  ;  and  as  far  as  the  old  birds  are  concerned  it  is 
no  doubt  true  that 

'  In  July  he  prepares  to  fly  ; 
In  August  go  he  must.' 

There  is,  however,  a  version  which  goes  on : 

'  In  September  you'll  him  remember  ; 
But  October  he'll  never  get  over.' 

And  the  young  birds  certainly  stay  much  later  than 
their  parents.  As  late  as  the  middle  of  August  young 
cuckoos  have  been  seen  in  the  act  of  being  fed  by 
attendant  wagtails.  Your  first  impression  will  very 
likely  be  that  a  hawk  is  devouring  a  brood  of  young 
birds,  and  that  the  parents  are  uttering  cries  of  distress. 
But  on  approaching  the  spot  you  will  find  that  it  is  a 
cuckoo,  not  a  hawk ;  strong  of  wing,  and  apparently 
well  able  to  forage  for  itself,  surrounded  by  a  little 
group  of  industrious  wagtails  busily  occupied  in 
dropping  food  into  its  mouth;  while  the  screams 
proceed  from  the  cuckoo  itself,  as  with  outspread 
wings  and  gaping  beak  it  calls  continually  for  more. 
Now  and  then  one  of  its  slaves  will  get  even  on  its 
back,  so  as  to  be  able  more  easily  to  supply  its  wants. 
The  silence  of  the  cuckoo  in  the  late  summer,  and 


The  Parting  Guests.  107 

its  likeness  to  the  sparrow-hawk,  probably  causes  it  to 
be  often  mistaken  for  that  bird  ;  in  country  districts 
there  are  still  some  who  believe  that  the  cuckoo  turns 
into  a  hawk  in  the  autumn. 

Its  winter  home  is  in  Africa,  in  the  north  especially, 
though  some  even  get  as  far  as  Natal. 

This  bird,  like  many  of  the  migrants,  has  been  kept 
in  this  country  in  confinement  through  the  winter ; 
but  it  is  worthy  of  note  that  captive  cuckoos  are  said 
never  to  feed  themselves,  even  although  they  may  live 
late  into  the  spring. 

It  has  been  confidently  stated  that  the  '  migratory 
instinct '  was  too  strong  to  admit  of  this  captivity  : 
that  whatever  care  might  be  taken  to  provide  food  and 
warmth  for  it,  the  hapless  captive  would,  when  the 
usual  time  for  departure  drew  near,  grow  restless,  and 
finally  beat  its  life  out  against  the  bars  of  its  prison. 
But  some  migratory  birds,  the  nightingale  for  example, 
have  been  known  to  breed  in  captivity. 

The  corncrake  migrates  to  the  extreme  south  of 
Africa— a  long  journey  for  a  bird  whose  powers  of 
flight  are  apparently  so  feeble  that,  when  flushed,  it 
seldom  goes  more  than  fifty  yards  without  alighting. 

Although  most  of  the  tribe  go  away  in  September, 
corncrakes  are  often  killed  in  the  stubble  in  October, 
or  even  later ;  and  instances  are  recorded  in  which 
they  have  been  found  in  a  torpid  state  in  holes, 
apparently  hybernating,  even  in  the  month  of  February, 
so  lately  as  the  year  1882. 


io8  By  Leafy   Ways. 

The  migratory  warblers  winter  in  Africa  ;  some,  like 
the  blackcap,  in  the  far  south  ;  others,  such  as  the 
nightingale,  in  the  region  near  Abyssinia.  Some  even 
stay  in  the  South  of  Europe,  while,  in  the  case  of  the 
chiffchaff,  a  few  probably  do  not  leave  England  at  all. 

The  chiffchaff  is,  indeed,  a  faithful  friend ;  a  guest 
who  comes  early  and  lingers  late.  Some  birds  desert 
us  on  the  threshold  of  the  changing  season — almost 
ere  the  first  fall  of  the  leaf;  most  of  them  before  the 
autumn  days  draw  in  and  the  twilight  air  has  a  touch 
of  frost  in  it.  The  cuckoo  leads  the  way ;  the  swift 
will  almost  overtake  her  on  her  passage  south  ;  the 
nightingale,  the  flycatcher,  the  redstart,  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  light-winged  host,  follow  in  their  train. 

But  the  note  of  the  chiffchaff  still  resounds  in  the 
deserted  glades.  When  the  October  sunset  is  red 
with  the  funeral  pyre  of  the  departed  summer;  when 
the  coral  chains  of  the  bryony  and  the  golden  leaves 
of  the  maple  light  up  the  country  lanes  ;  when 

' — like  living  coals,  the  apples 
Burn  among  the  withering  leaves — ' 

still  the  chiffchaff  lingers ;  and  far  on  in  the  year,  in 
the  mournful  silence  of  the  leafless  woodlands,  you 
may  hear  him  still.  He  is  the  rearguard  of  the  re- 
tiring legions ;  he  is  in  the  van  of  the  returning  army. 
For  when,  in  the  early  springtime,  the  copses  have  their 
first  tinge  of  tender  green,  he  will  come  back  to  us  a 
humble,  faithful,  welcome  visitor. 


FLYING,    FLYING    SOUTH, 

^THE  genial  sunshine  of  bright  September  days  half 
tempts  us  to  forget  the  stormy  moods  of  an  un- 
gracious summer. 

True  it  is  that  cold  and  clinging  mists  linger  late 
into  the  mornings;  sadly  true  that  the  days  are 
shortening  fast,  and  that  evening  airs  are  chill ;  that 
now  and  then  there  is  a  touch  of  frost  upon  the 
meadows,  and  a  film  of  ice  upon  the  pools. 

But  a  look  of  summer  lingers  in  the  landscape ;  the 
woods  still  wear  their  summer  dress.  Worn  and 
faded  are  the  leaves,  pierced  and  torn  by  myriad 
caterpillars,  but  still  the  trees  are  green,  hardly  touched 
as  yet  by  the  fiery  fingers  of  the  Autumn.  The  foliage 
of  the  beech  is  thinning  fast ;  the  dry  leaves  of  the 
lime  begin  to  rustle  on  the  path.  But  there  is  not 

yet 

'  The  wonder  of  the  falling  tongues  of  flame — ' 

that  crowning  glory  of  chill  October. 

In  the  strange  autumnal  stillness  the  leaves  hang 


no  By  Leafy   Ways. 

motionless  in  the  voiceless  woods,  as  if  waiting  for 
their  fall. 

The  air  is  crowded  with  innumerable  insects. 
Gnats  in  cloudy  columns — short-lived  children  of  the 
autumn — rise  like  phantoms  from  the  river-path. 
Millions  of  ephemera  spend  in  the  twilight  their  brief 
span  of  life  —  born  after  sundown,  dying  ere  the 
dawn. 

Hosts  of  dusky  moths  hover  round  the  lingering 
flowers. 

The.  hush  of  night  grows  deeper  as  the  grasshopper 
chirps  at  intervals  his  drowsy  strain. 

But  careless  of  the  noonday  warmth,  and  not 
tempted  by  the  store  of  insect  life,  the  swallows — 
knowing  perhaps  by  bitter  experience  how  suddenly 
the  food  supply  may  fail,  prompted  by  some  myste- 
rious sense  of  coming  winter — have  all,  except  a  few 
stragglers,  left  us  even  earlier  than  usual.  Even  in 
August  the  movement  began.  No  later  than  the 
middle  of  the  month  vast  flights  of  swallows  collected 
and  started  on  their  journey. 

Led  by  no  skilful  pilot — not  even  guided  by  pre- 
vious knowledge — they  gained  their  first  experience, 
for  the  young  birds  of  the  year,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  went  first.  The  parents  followed  with  their 
second  broods. 

Some  stragglers  still  remain,  who,  here  to-day  and 
gone  to-morrow,  hurry  southward  in  the  track  of  the 
legions. 


Flying,  flying  South.  in 

Swallows  have  been  seen  at  Christmas ;  still  more 
rarely,  in  the  two  months  that  follow. 

Fast  and  far  the  little  travellers  will  fly.  The  road 
is  long ;  there  are  perils  by  the  way.  Cold  and  hunger 
will  thin  the  ranks ;  kite  and  falcon  will  harass  the 
defenceless  columns.  Of  those  who  reach  the  African 
shore  some  will  stay  to  the  north  of  the  Sahara ; 
others  will  wander  far  to  southward  down  the  western 
coast ;  many  will  winter  even  at  the  Cape. 

They  have  been  with  us  nearly  half  the  year.  In 
April,  or  even  earlier,  the  vanguard  crossed  the  sea. 
A  few  weeks  of  holiday  followed  their  return.  A  few 
weeks  on  the  river,  a  few  weeks  of  the  free  life  of  the 
heavens,  and  then  they  settled  down  to  the  serious 
business  of  the  season. 

Last  year's  nest — perhaps  their  home  for  many 
summers — was  repaired.  Or  if  in  the  interval  some 
Vandal  had  swept  away  the  fragile  walls  a  new  one 
was  commenced.  It  is  a  shallow  structure,  built  of 
moist  and  kneaded  earth,  gathered  up  in  the  road  or 
by  the  bank  of  a  stream. 

It  is  generally  out  of  sight.  Here  in  a  disused 
chimney,  there  among  the  rafters  of  an  outhouse, 
sometimes  even  in  a  well.  Two  cases  are  recorded  in 
which  swallows  built  in  trees. 

It  is  true  that  swallows  sometimes  build  in  more 
open  situations  ;  but  the  nests  over  the  cottage  window, 
the  clay-built  homes  that  cluster  thick  along  the  eaves, 
are  the  work  of  another  mason — the  house-martin. 


112  By  Leafy  Ways. 

The  birds  have  marked  points  of  difference ; 
but  unlike  as  are  their  ways,  their  plumage,  and 
their  song,  they  are  constantly  mistaken  for  each 
other. 

They  are  often  seen  in  company.  Together  they 
skim  the  surface  of  the  pool,  among  the  crowds  of 
water-loving  insects.  Together  they  soar  far  up  into 
the  blue  heaven,  until  the  sight  can  scarcely  follow 
their  figures  on  the  sky. 

But  the  naturalist  distinguishes  far  off  their  form 
and  flight.  He  contrasts  the  long  and  deeply  forked 
tail  of  the  swallow  with  the  shallower  notch  and 
shorter  feathers  of  the  martin.  The  throat  of  the 
swallow  is  broadly  marked  with  chestnut,  bordered 
with  a  band  of  deep  blue  black.  The  martin  wears 
pure  white  on  throat  and  body,  and  carries  also  a 
conspicuous  patch  of  white  over  its  tail. 

The  swallow  is  a  familiar  bird.  Well  known  to  us 
all  are  the  sound  of  its  voice  and  the  sheen  of  its 
wings.  But  although  ever)'  man  knows,  or  thinks  he 
knows,  the  harbinger  of  spring,  it  is  rare  to  see  either 
a  swallow  or  a  martin  correctly  drawn  outside  the 
pages  of  a  book  on  Natural  History. 

Very  different  from  either  is  the  swift,  who  indeed 
does  not  belong  to  the  family  at  all,  and  more  re- 
sembles the  humming-bird  in  his  structure.  His  long 
wings  are  curved  like  a  bow.  His  sable  plumage  is 
relieved  by  one  faint  touch  of  white  upon  the  throat, 
hardly  visible,  save  when  at  some  turn  of  his  rapid 


Flying,  flying  South.  113 

flight,  the  bird  hangs  for  a  moment  almost  motionless 
in  the  air. 

The  swallow  and  the  martin  stay  with  us  the  summer 
through.  They  even  linger  in  the  autumn.  But  the 
swift  is  more  a  child  of  the  south  than  either.  He 
comes  in  May  and  goes  in  August.  Brief  indeed  for 

him  is 

'  — the  sun  of  summer  in  the  north.' 

The  feet  of  the  swallow,  although  small  and  slender, 
have  a  general  resemblance  to  those  of  most  other 
birds. 

The  tiny  feet  of  the  martin  are  feathered  to  the 
toes. 

The  foot  of  the  swift,  covered  with  bristle-like 
feathers,  and  with  all  four  claws  placed  in  front,  is 
more  like  the  paw  of  a  small  quadruped. 

Although  the  swift  never  settles  on  a  tree,  and  very 
rarely  even  on  a  roof,  it  often  clings  to  the  wall  at  the 
entrance  of  its  nest,  and  its  claws  are  strong  enough 
to  take  a  piece  clean  out  of  the  hand  of  an  incautious 
captor. 

Little  as  we  see  of  the  swallow  engaged  in  rearing 
its  young,  the  habits  of  the  swift  are  even  less  familiar. 
We  see  nothing  of  its  nest  unless  we  raise  the  tiles 
where,  far  up  under  the  roof,  the  bird  crouches  on  the 
scanty  handful  of  grass  and  feathers  she  has  caught 
up  in  her  flight. 

The  life  history  of  the  martin  is  better  known  to  us. 
We  watch  the  graceful  little  builders  clinging  to  the 

8 


ii4  By  Leafy  Ways. 

wall  of  their  unfinished  nest.  We  see  the  two  fairy- 
like  figures  nestling  side  by  side  within  the  hollow, 
and  hear  them  whisper  little  staves  of  song. 

The  hen  bird,  brooding  on  her  eggs,  shows  at  times 
her  glossy  crown  and  a  touch  of  her  pure  white  throat 
over  the  rim  of  the  nest. 

Later  still  four  little  heads  are  seen  looking  out  into 
the  world.  Then  conies  the  first  plunge  into  the  air. 
All  the  neighbours  take 'an  interest  in  the  great  event. 
Now  they  sail  up  to  the  nest,  poising  in  the  air  a 
moment  with  a  twitter  of  encouragement ;  now  ad- 
vancing, now  retiring,  trying  all  they  know  to  tempt 
the  timid  novices  to  spread  their  unproved  wings ; 
and  when  at  last  one  of  the  little  crew  takes  heart  and 
launches  out  into  the  airy  deep,  with  what  a  chorus 
do  they  welcome  to  their  ranks  the  bold  adven- 
turer ! 

Now,  young  and  old  alike,  swift  and  swallow  and 
martin,  have  turned  their  backs  upon  our  shores ; 
loitering  here  in  the  sunny  streets  of  Pisa,  lingering 
there  in  warm  Algerian  highlands,  but  still  moving 
south,  until  they  rest  at  last  in  lands  of  endless 
summer. 

The  sight  of  the  last  swallow  is  like  the  first  footfall 
of  approaching  Winter,  ominous  of  rain  and  snow ;  of 
stinging  east  and  bitter  weather. 

How  we  shall  watch  for  his  return  !  Many  migrants 
come  and  go  unheeded.  We  listen  indeed  to  the  cry 
of  the  cuckoo;  we  hear  with  rapture  the  anthem  of 


Flying,  flying  South.  115 

the  nightingale.  But  there  are  scores  of  birds,  who 
cross  the  sea  and  settle  here  for  the  season,  of  whom 
the  world  takes  little  heed. 

But  it  is  otherwise  with  the  swallow.  No  bird  is 
better  known.  No  bird  is  so  suggestive  of  the  summer. 
No  other  calls  up  so  vividly  memories  of  Halcyon 
Days. 

With  what  joy  we  watch  the  first  solitary  swallow  on 
the  April  sky  !  It  is  a  sign  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born. 
It  is  the  time  of  violets.  Copses  are  ringing  with  the 
songs  of  thrush  and  blackbird.  Overhead  floats  the 
music  of  the  lark.  Then  comes  the  swallow  on  his 
sunny  wings  back  from  his  perilous  voyage  to  the  old 
roof  whose  thatch  has  sheltered  him  so  long. 

What  sweeter  sound  of  springtime  than  his  matin 
song  from  the  brown  gable  of  the  barn  ?  What 
brighter  touch  of  summer  in  the  landscape  than  his 
figure  high  in  air,  floating  on  glad  wings  amid  scores 
of  happy  comrades  whose  life  is  sunshine  and  whose 
speech  is  song  ? 


8—2 


THE   RETURN    OF    THE    FIELDFARE. 


~\  X  7HEN  the  swallow  and  his  clan  have  deserted 
for  the  winter  their  haunts  among  the  smoke- 
blackened  roofs  of  the  city,  no  bird  is  found  who,  in 
any  sense,  fills  their  places. 

Most  of  the  starlings  go  away  to  join  the  legions 
that  muster  by  the  sea  or  on  the  moorland. 

Only  the  sparrow  stays.  No  one  ever  sees  his  sooty 
coat  among  the  handsome  dresses  of  his  country 
cousins. 

But  out  in  the  fields  the  case  is  different.  We  miss 
indeed  the  crowd  of  birds  who  came  to  us  in  the 


The  Return  of  the  Fieldfare.  117 

spring,  and  have  spent  the  summer  here.  We  see  no 
more  the  nightingale  and  the  blackcap,  the  cuckoo 
and  the  redstart. 

They  have  long  been  silent.  They  have  vanished 
in  the  dark,  unseen,  unheard,  and  their  going  has 
been  hardly  noticed. 

By  the  time  we  are  conscious  of  their  absence,  the 
fields  and  the  lanes,  the  hills  and  the  marshes,  have  a 
new  set  of  tenants,  who  drop  silently  into  the  vacant 
places.  The  midsummer  play  indeed  is  over,  but  we 
shall  see  a  new  set  of  actors  among  the  winter  scenery. 

They  are  not  a  musical  set ;  but  they  make  up  in 
movement  what  they  lack  in  melody,  and  their  pre- 
sence goes  far  to  console  us  for  our  lost  companions. 

Conspicuous  among  them  all  is  the  smart  figure  of 
the  fieldfare,  handsomest  of  familiar  thrushes. 

On  the  eve  of  the  long  winter  he  leaves  his  home,  in 
Norway  or  Siberia,  and  comes  southward  to  these 
islands,  to  France  and  Spain,  wandering  even  as  far 
as  Africa.  In  mild  seasons,  when  the  summer  lingers 
late  into  the  autumn,  the  fieldfare  does  not  reach  us 
till  October,  and  his  appearance  earlier  is  considered 
an  omen  of  a  harder  year  than  usual. 

When  on  the  orchard-boughs  the  fruit  glows  red 
through  dying  leaves,  when  the  hedgerow  maple  dons 
its  dress  of  gold,  we  shall  see,  far  up  on  the  grey  sky, 
the  even  lines  of  the  invaders,  and  hear  their  voices 
floating  downward  through  the  sharp  October  air. 

But  we  shall  not  see  much  of  them  yet.     When  the 


n8  By  Leafy  Ways. 

wind  has  shaken  down  the  rustling  leaves  upon  the 
forest  path  we  may  mark  them  better.  When  the  bare 
black  boughs  stand  clear  cut  against  the  frosty  sky  we 
shall  see  their  figures  in  the  leafless  elm,  or  watch 
them  on  the  upland  pasture,  whose  coarse  herbage, 
browned  with  the  sun  of  summer,  is  stiffening  with 
rime. 

Along  a  lonely  hillside  winds  a  grassy  road,  seldom 
marked  even  by  the  track  of  wheels,  save  when  some 
lumbering  waggon  brings  down  the  thin  sheaves  of  the 
scanty  upland  harvest. 

Over  the  broad  hedges  wanders  the  traveller's  joy, 
whose  seeds,  like  tufts  of  light  grey  feathers,  mingle 
with  the  bright  fruit  of  the  wayfaring-tree. 

Above  the  road  rise  the  round  shoulders  of  the 
hill,  with  masses  of  grey  limestone  showing  here  and 
there  through  a  rough  coat  of  gorse  and  heather. 

Facing  the  far  end  of  the  lane  rises  a  steep  cliff,  in 
whose  crevices  the  rowan  finds  a  footing,  and  the 
silvery  leaves  of  the  white  beam  mingle  with  the  dark 
leafage  of  the  yew. 

Below  the  road  broad  fields  sweep  gently  down  to 
the  moor.  Here  they  are  flanked  with  a  fringe  of 
larches ;  there  a  few  storm-beaten  fir-trees  cluster 
about  the  rude  earthworks  of  an  ancient  camp. 

The  tall  straggling  hedgerows  are  bright  with  haws  ; 
touched  even  with  the  vivid  colour  of  the  spindle  or 
the  jewelled  clusters  of  the  nightshade. 

Over  all  there  broods  the  silence  of  the  autumn. 


The  Return  of  the  Fieldfare.  ng 

No  sound  disturbs  the  quiet  save  the  scream  of  a  jay 
in  the  shadows  of  the  larchwood,  the  cry  of  a  hawk  as 
he  drifts  along  the  grey  rampart  of  the  hill,  or  the  call 
of  a  woodpecker  from  the  dim  recesses  of  the  orchard. 

High  up  in  the  tall  ash  that  leans  out  of  the  hedge- 
row sits  a  fieldfare,  keeping  sharp  look-out  on  all  the 
world  below. 

The  finches  and  yellow-hammers  take  little  heed  as 
you  move  with  quiet  footfall  down  the  grassy  way. 

But  the  fieldfare  has  eyes  for  everything.  He  is  on 
sentry. 

Scattered  over  the  ground  in  the  next  pasture  is  the 
flock  of  his  companions.  There  is  a  gate  yonder  from 
which  you  may  watch  them.  But  the  sentry  gives  a 
warning  call.  The  foraging  party  look  up,  and  in- 
stantly take  wing  for  the  trees  that  skirt  the  meadow. 

There  are  few  shyer  birds  than  the  fieldfare  whsn 
first  he  comes  to  us  a  stranger ;  and  as  long  as  the 
weather  keeps  mild  it  will  not  be  easy  to  get  within 
reach  of  him.  But  when  the  ground  grows  hard 
under  the  breath  of  Winter,  and  the  hedgerow  fruits 
alone  afford  them  a  scanty  living,  fieldfares  become 
more  bold,  and  venture  nearer  the  abodes  of  man. 
Should  the  cold  continue,  they  will  go  farther  south, 
and  we  shall  see  no  more  of  them  until  they  pass  us 
in  the  spring  on  their  homeward  journey 

Hewitson,  who  was  the  first  Englishman  to  describe 
the  breeding  haunts  of  the  fieldfare,  found  the  birds 
building  in  companies — hundreds  of  nests  together  in 


I2O  By  Leafy  Ways. 

the  forest.  It  is  quite  common,  however,  to  find 
them  singly,  though  several  are  often  found  within  a 
few  yards. 

The  nest,  made  of  grass  and  twigs,  and  stiffened 
with  mud  like  that  of  the  blackbird,  is  built  in  a  tree, 
but  from  necessity,  or  perhaps  merely  from  choice,  is 
sometimes  placed  on  the  ground. 

No  precautions  seem  to  be  taken  for  concealment. 
The  great  structure  is  often  so  close  to  the  road  that 
the  traveller  may  look  into  it  as  he  passes. 

But  farther  north,  among  the  wild  arctic  fiords  or  in 
the  solitude  of  the  Lofoden  islands,  the  bird  finds  a 
spot  that  to  us  at  least  seems  more  in  keeping  with 
her  love  of  quiet. 

Land  on  the  shore  of  one  of  the  little  bays  among 
the  islands.  Cross  the  beach  among  the  boulders, 
fringed  with  rich  brown  seaweed,  the  haunt  of  gull 
and  cormorant, — as  the  broken  echinus  shells  strewn 
about  will  testify,  and  stroll  up  the  little  valley  that 
winds  away  among  the  sterile  hills. 

Huge  masses  of  rock,  torn  by  frost  and  tempest 
from  the  rugged  crests  on  either  hand,  lie  piled  along 
the  sides,  half  hidden  among  the  cool  foliage  of  stunted 
birch-trees. 

All  the  valley  glows  with  the  rich  green  herbage 
which  the  fierce  sun  of  the  brief  northern  summer  and 
the  warm  waves  of  the  great  ocean  current  make  so 
strangely  fair.  Knee-deep  rise  the  grass  and  ferns 
along  a  little  stream  that  idly  wanders  seaward  under 


The  Return  of  the  Fieldfare.  121 

a  canopy  of  waving  green.  Tall  globe-flowers  mark 
with  their  golden  bells  the  devious  course  of  the 
rivulet. 

Under  the  shadow  of  a  boulder,  where  to  the 
barren  ground  clings  a  thick  growth  of  tiny  Alpine 
heaths,  there  is  a  quick  rustle  as  of  some  moving 
animal.  Two  lemmings — graceful,  gentle  creatures, 
suggestive  half  of  dormouse,  half  of  guinea-pig — roll 
over  and  over  down  the  slope  and  frolic  almost  at 
your  feet.  You  lean  down  to  watch  them  closer,  but 
the  bright  eyes  catch  sight  of  a  moving  figure;  the 
little  fellows  have  vanished  into  their  hole. 

A  heap  of  broken  egg-shells  shows  that  grouse  have 
nested  here,  and  no  doubt  plenty  of  willow-grouse 
and  ptarmigan  are  crouching  even  now  among  this 
broken  ground. 

The  sound  of  footsteps  disturbs  a  bird  from  the 
clustering  birches  that  spread  their  lace-like  foliage 
over  the  stream.  There  she  goes  !  A  fieldfare.  And 
among  the  branches,  not  six  feet  from  the  ground,  is 
the  nest.  The  four  eggs  in  it  are  not  distinguishable 
from  those  of  the  blackbird. 

These  are  the  second  brood.  The  first,  like  those 
of  English  thrushes,  were  hatched  much  earlier  in  the 
season. 

The  young  birds  will  not  see  much  of  their  native 
land  this  year.  But  few  weeks  remain  to  them  before 
they  must  turn  their  faces  to  the  south. 

It    must    be    a   hard    climate    from    which    they 


122  By  Leafy   Ways. 

are  driven  thus  to  the  tender  mercies  of  an  English 
winter. 

What  a  spot  the  old  birds  fixed  on  for  their  home ! 
For  six  weeks  the  sun  never  sets  upon  their  island. 
Six  weeks  of  daylight  shine  upon  their  happy  valley. 
Day  after  day  there  meets  their  eyes  that  wonder  that 
greeted  the  astonished  gaze  of  '  Othere,  the  old  sea 
captain,'  when 

'  Round  in  a  fiery  ring, 
Went  the  great  sun,  O  King, 
With  red  and  lurid  light.' 

What  a  vision  of  glory  is  this  sunlit  midnight !  The 
amber  of  the  twilight  sky  shades  into  soft  purple  down 
on  the  horizon.  The  sea,  a  fiery  opal  in  the  light  of 
the  level  sun,  shines  in  ever-changing  tints  of  green 
and  orange  and  crimson. 

A  line  of  blue  lies  like  a  rare  setting  to  the 
wild  islands,  the  faint  far  outlines  of  whose  innumer- 
able peaks  lie  bathed  in  softest  tones  of  rose  and 
amethyst. 

Above  all  is  the  wonder  of  the  unsetting  sun,  whose 
path  of  glory  lights  the  glittering  waves. 


TITE    SUMMER    OF    SAINT    MARTIN 


are  midway  through  the  autumn.  The  time  is 
far  advanced,'  and  winter  lingers  at  the  gate. 
But,  as  we  look  across  the  landscape,  we  find  almost 
more  of  summer  in  it  than  of  autumn  still.  We  have 
indeed  felt  the  print  of  icy  fingers  ;  flowers  have  long 
been  fading  at  the  fatal  touch,  and  hilltops  have  been 
white  with  early  snow.  But  just  as  we  begin  to  think 
that  winter  is  upon  us,  the  air  grows  soft  and  gentle, 
and  there  broods  over  the  land  the  glamour  of  the 
Indian  summer. 

'  The  summer  and  the  winter  here, 

Midway  a  truce  are  holding  ; 
A  soft,  consenting  atmosphere 
Their  tents  of  peace  enfolding.' 

It  is  a  time  of  rest  and  calm.  Ended  are  all  the 
trials  and  troubles  of  the  wayward  season.  The  har- 
vest has  been  gathered  in,  and  in  orderly  array  the 
corn-stacks  cluster  round  the  quiet  homesteads.  In 


124  By  Leafy  Ways. 

the  silent  orchard  alleys  there  shine,  like  glowing 
emhers,  heaps  of  fallen  apples. 

The  woodlands  even  yet  have  hardly  donned  their 
fullest  splendour,  but  we  read  the  story  of  the  season 
on  the  leaves  of  many  a  noble  tree.  Some  there  are 
still  draped  in  summer  green,  save  that  a  single  spray 
hangs  here  and  there,  shining  among  the  sombre 
fol'age  like  beaten  gold. 

The  beech  grows  red  in  the  warm  October  sunshine. 
The  great  wood  pigeons  that  feed  upon  the  fallen  mast 
fly  up  as  steps  draw  near,  and  shake  from  the  rattling 
branches  a  shower  of  colour  with  their  flapping  wings. 

One  noble  lime  still  wears,  blended  in  exquisite 
harmony,  its  varied  tones  of  green,  and  brown,  and 
amber.  Another,  more  gorgeous  still,  is  perfect  in  its 
dress  of  gold. 

Day  by  day  the  black  poplar  strews  fresh  glory  on 
the  path.  The  perfume  that  clung  about  its  opening 
foliage  lingers  no  longer  round  the  dying  leaves.  Its 
neighbour,  the  stately  walnut,  whose  grey  arms  are 
growing  quickly  bare,  is  fragrant  to  the  last,  and  its 
brown  and  shrivelled  leaves  are  scented  still. 

The  fans  of  the  horse-chestnut  are  glorious  in 
crimson  and  gold.  The  great  trees  are  ablaze  with 
colour,  and  the  rich  brown  of  their  riperiing  fruit  shines 
through  the  rough  green  shells. 

Starling  and  missel  thrush  have  cleared  from  the 
mountain-ash  the  coral  clusters  of  its  brilliant  fruit 
but  the  tree  has  not  lost  its  glory  yet ;  the  russet  leaves 


The  Summer  of  Saint  Martin.          125 

have  a  softer  beauty  of  their  own.  The  broad  leaves 
of  the  plane,  here  pale  yellow,  there  brightened  with  a 
touch  of  crimson,  now  deepening  into  brown,  are 
falling  fast. 

In  the  voiceless  woods,  where  the  warm  hues  of 
beech  and  maple  shine  like  the  rich  windows  of  some 
vast  cathedral,  the  trees  stand  motionless  in  the  scented 
air.  A  faint  breath  of  wind,  that  just  stirs  the  topmost 
twigs  upon  the  elm,  brings  down  a  shower  of  leaves 
that  patter  like  drops  of  hail  upon  the  branches. 
Elsewhere,  a  solemn  stillness,  broken  only  by  the  faint 
sound  of  falling  leaves.  First  conies  a  little  movement 
overhead,  as  the  leaf  loosens  at  last,  and  for  all  time, 
its  hold  upon  the  parent  bough  ;  a  moment  of  silence 
again  as  the  little  waif  floats  gently  down,  and  then  a 
rustle  in  the  underwood  as  one  more  touch  of  colour 
is  added  to  the  ever-changing  carpet  of  brown  and 
scarlet,  of  russet  and  of  gold. 

Nor  is  the  glory  only  overhead.  The  tiny  leaves  of 
the  burnet  are  turning  crimson.  Trailing  sprays  of 
bramble  glow  with  vivid  tints.  Brilliant  fungi,  brown, 
and  red,  and  yellow,  lend  their  colours  in  the  place  of 
vanished  flowers ;  others,  pale  and  delicate,  are  strewn 
like  seed  pearls  among  green  waves  of  trailing  moss. 

The  frosts  that  gild  the  maple  and  the  lime  are 
bringing  from  the  north  a  host  of  winter  visitors.  It  is 
the  season  when,  fleeing  from  the  terrors  of  the  black 
and  bitter  north,  there  streams  over  the  sea,  night  after 
night,  the  vast  array  of  hurrying  fugitives.  At  the  close 


126  By  Leafy  Ways. 

of  day,  and  when  through  a  golden  mist  the  sun  sinks 
in  the  west ;  when  soft  grey  clouds  that  bar  the  quiet 
sky  swiftly  take  colour  and  glow  like  plumes  of  fire  ; 
when  after  a  brief  gleam  of  glory  the  dark  comes  down 
upon  the  silent  fields ;  when  roofs,  that  drip  with  dew, 
shine  like  sheets  of  silver  in  the  splendour  of  the 
moon,  there  sets  in,  through  the  tranquil  hours  of 
night,  the  rush  of  innumerable  wings. 

On  moonlight  nights,  when  skies  are  cloudless  and 
the  air  is  clear,  the  birds  pass  high  overhead,  far 
beyond  the  range  of  sight  or  sound.  But  dark  or 
cloudy  weather  compels  them  to  fly  lower  down  in 
order  to  find  their  bearings.  For  the  path  of  migration 
is  no  vague,  mysterious  road,  followed  unconsciously 
by  some  blind  impulse  of  unreasoning  instinct.  It  is 
a  path  discovered  by  experience,  and  followed  year  by 
year  with  the  help  of  familiar  waymarks  which  the 
birds  can  see  far  down  beneath  them  as  they  fly. 

It  is  no  doubt  a  prompting  of  instinct  which  leads 
the  young  birds,  who  never  yet  have  left  their  native 
land,  to  start  before  their  elders  and  drift  aimlessly 
over  the  sea  towards  hitherto  unknown  regions  in  the 
southward.  But  those  who  know  the  way  stay  later, 
and  probably  follow  some  recognised  and  regular 
route. 

In  fair  weather  the  movements  of  the  birds  of 
passage  are  seldom  seen.  It  is  on  dark  and  stormy 
nights — nights  of  rough  weather  and  of  inky  gloom — 
that  the  lighthouse-keepers,  hundreds  of  whom  are  on 


The  Summer  of  Saint  Martin.          127 

the  watch,  become  aware  of  the  passing  of  the  vast 
array. 

On  such  a  night  the  air  is  crowded  with  myriads  of 
flying  forms,  wheeling  round  the  lantern,  coming  up 
like  phantoms  out  of  the  darkness,  seen  for  a  moment 
in  the  glare,  and  then  disappearing  in  the  gloom.  The 
air  is  filled  with  screams,  and  cries,  and  strange  un- 
earthly voices,  and  the  rustling  of  innumerable  wings. 
Thousands  of  birds  are  taken  while  dazzled  with  the 
light ;  thousands  dash  their  lives  out  against  the  fatal 
splendour.  Sometimes,  even,  hurled  through  the 
glass  by  the  tremendous  impulse  of  their  flight,  they 
fall  lifeless  on  the  light-room  floor  among  the  fragments 
of  the  shattered  lantern. 

During  the  migratory  period,  which  lasts  only  for  a 
few  weeks,  birds  are  continually  making  the  journey, 
but  there  are  two  great  flights  each  season,  separated  by 
an  interval  of  a  fortnight  or  more.  The  migrants  seem 
to  care  little  for  rain  or  darkness,  or  even  for  unfavour- 
able winds ;  but  it  has  been  observed  that  the  passage 
of  the  great  flocks  is  frequently  the  signal  of  approach- 
ing storms,  and  that  they  often  take  advantage  of  a 
lull  to  leave  their  summer  quarters.  The  worst  of 
weather  will  not  delay  them  long,  and  this  long  spell 
of  calm  will  no  doubt  have  brought  troops  of  birds 
from  the  chilled  regions  of  the  north. 

Already  the  bright  eyes  of  the  woodcock  have  been 
seen  in  the  covers.  Already  the  bay  is  dotted  with 
the  dark  figures  of  scaup-ducks.  The  widgeons  have 


128  By  Leafy  Ways. 

ound  their  way  to  the  pools  among  the  marshes,  and 
strings  of  teal  are  reported  from  the  river. 

It  is  an  ancestral  haunt.  A  thousand  years  have 
left  but  little  sign  in  this  quiet  corner  of  the  world. 
Among  the  stately  elms,  that  cluster  under  the  hill 
which  skirts  the  moor,  rise  the  square  tower  and  mas- 
sive masonry  of  an  ancient  priory.  Rich  meadows  and 
wide  belts  of  fertile  corn-land  stretch  away  across  the 
level  plain.  Over  the  yellow  sands  there  comes  the 
murmur  of  the  sea. 

'  There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills  : 
The  salt  sea  water  passes  by, 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 
And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills.' 

About  the  spot  there  cling  dim  memories  of  the 
past.  Phoenician  captains  moored  their  galleys  in  this 
little  river.  Kelt  and  Saxon  struggled  for  the  mastery 
of  those  wooded  heights. 

Long  since  scattered  are  the  sandalled  friars.  For 
three  long  centuries  the  dark  rafters  of  the  old  ban- 
queting-hall  have  rung  with  no  sonorous  chant,  or 
stave  of  reveller's  song.  The  fish-ponds  of  the  Priory 
are  choked  with  reeds.  No  stout-limbed  churls  clear 
now  the  channels  of  the  old  decoy. 

But  among  the  brown  and  rustling  flags  that  fill  the 
ditches  still  descend  long  flights  of  wild-fowl.  Troops 
of  widgeon  that  have  left  their  summer  home  at  the 
setting  in  of  the  long  Arctic  night  hide  among  the 
tasselled  sedges  that  wave  along  the  banks. 


The  Summer  of  Saint  Martin.  129 

Still  from  their  ancient  nesting-place,  among  the 
noble  trees  that  clothe  the  steep  sides  of  the  hollow  in 
the  distant  hills,  come  down  the  herons.  They  fish  in 
the  self-same  ditches  where,  in  bygone  days,  their 
startled  ancestors  spread  mighty  wings  to  escape  the 
swift  rush  of  the  Prior's  favourite  falcon.  Like  the 
friars,  they  too  have  fallen  from  their  high  estate. 
But  although  no  longer  followed  by  the  shouting 
chase,  protected  by  no  stern  penalty  of  jealous  laws, 
still  by  the  quiet  reaches  of  the  little  river,  in  the 
moorland  ditches,  and  along  the  level  shore,  these 
ancient  solitary  anglers  watch  and  wait. 


'A   GREAT    FREQUENTER    OF    THE   CHURCH. 


T  N  the  later  days  of  autumn,  when  the  berries  are 
dwindling  on  the  hedgerows,  and  the  insects  have 
died  by  myriads  in  the  frosty  air ;  when  the  birds,  which 
have  not  followed  the  custom  of  their  fathers  and 
gone  southward  to  a  sunnier  climate,  begin  to  feel  the 
pinch  of  poverty,  some  of  them  collect  in  companies 
and  wander  up  and  down  in  search  of  food  ;  others 


'A   Great  Frequenter  of  the  Church.'     131 

are  driven  in  from  the  fields  to  the  dwellings  of  man, 
and  lose  for  a  time  their  accustomed  shyness. 

Some  there  are  who  always  hang  about  the  farm- 
yard and  the  cover  merely  for  the  sake  of  plunder, 
and  are  at  constant  feud  with  the  farmer,  like  the 
caitiff  crow  and  his  handsome  cousin  the  magpie. 

Others,  again,  like  the  hawfinch,  always  keep  so  far 
aloof  from  sign  or  sound  of  labour  that  we  hardly 
realize  their  presence  at  all  until  even  their  shyness 
gives  way  before  the  rigour  of  some  bitter  season,  and 
in  their  extremity  they,  too,  have  to  look  for  corn  in 
Egypt. 

A  few  birds  constantly  court  the  comp'any  of  man  ; 
some  of  them  nest  beneath  his  roof-tree ;  most  of  them 
are  more  or  less  dependent  on  his  labours  for  their 
living.  The  farmer  and  the  rook,  for  instance,  play 
into  each  other's  hands ;  and  were  it  not  for  the  con- 
venient shelter  of  roofs  and  rainwater  pipes,  the 
sparrow  and  the  starling  would  go  far  afield  to  find  a 
place  of  rest. 

Less  common  and  conspicuous  than  the  rook,  but 
a  zealous  worker  on  the  farm,  and  a  faithful  friend  of 
man,  is  the  light-hearted  jackdaw. 

He  constantly  associates  with  his  sable  kinsmen. 
He  will  follow  the  plough  with  the  rook,  and  roam 
the  sea-beach  with  the  crow,  but  his  quicker  move- 
ments and  his  sharper  speech  distinguish  him  easily 
from  the  former ;  and  although  his  character  is  nothing 
to  speak  of,  and  his  thievish  ways  are  beyond  denial. 

9—2 


132  By  Leafy  Ways. 

he  is  yet  no  sharer  in  the  dark  deeds  of  the 
latter. 

The  history  of  the  jackdaw,  from  the  popular  point 
of  view,  consists  largely  of  stories  told  to  his  discredit 
concerning  purloined  spoons  and  misappropriated 
jewellery,  together  with  scraps  of  amusing  speech. 

His  robberies  are  no  doubt  real  enough,  but  his 
articulation  is  seldom  distinct,  and  one  may  well  be 
sceptical  with  regard  to  such  anecdotes  as  that  which 
relates  how  a  jackdaw  was  caught  red  handed  in  the 
kitchen  ;  how  the  angry  cook  threw  over  him  some 
scalding  broth  ;  how  the  disconsolate  bird  moped  and 
pined  and  tried  to  hide  his  featherless  crown,  until 
one  day,  seeing  a  bald-headed  gentleman  among  the 
guests  at  dinner,  he  hopped  upon  the  back  of  his  chair 
and  cried,  with  recovered  cheerfulness,  '  So  you've 
been  at  the  pickled  cockles  !' 

ThQ  jackdaw  is  given  to  wandering  far  in  search  of 
food,  and  often  accompanies  the  foraging  parties  of 
the  rookery. 

It  is  a  mingled  crew  that  gathers  on  the  upland 
fields  where  the  only  sign  of  man's  dominion  is  the 
rich  brown  earth  of  newly-turned  furrows. 

From  their  ancestral  elm-trees  under  the  hill  come 
the  solemn  rooks,  stately  of  gait  and  deliberate  of 
speech. 

A  party  of  rockdoves,  after  wheeling  round  and 
round  the  field,  settle  down  in  a  corner  by  them- 
selves. 


*  A  Great  Frequenter  of  the  Church.1     133 

Here,  a  few  lapwings  run  up  and  down,  or  sail 
across  the  sky  with  melancholy  cries. 

There,  is  even  a  flock  of  gulls  driven  inland  by 
the  rough  weather,  their  white  plumage  contrasting 
strongly  with  the  dark  dress  of  their  companions. 

And,  scattered  over  the  broad  field,  a  troop  of  jack- 
daws forage  busily  among  the  furrows. 

One  is  at  work  so  near  that  you  can  even  see  the 
white  iris  of  his  eye  and  the  grey  patches  in  his  coat. 
But  he  has  caught  sight  of  you  as  you  crouch  behind 
the  wall.  He  rises  with  a  warning  cry. 

The  timid  doves  vanish  swiftly  on  their  sounding 
wings. 

The  rooks  rise  all  at  once  and  drift  slowly  away 
with  loud  and  solemn  caw. 

The  jackdaws,  hastily  collecting  in  a  troop,  chatter 
gaily  as  they  fly,  and,  with  rapid  beat  of  their  dark 
wings,  make  for  the  ravine  whose  rugged  steeps  are 
just  visible  over  the  shoulder  of  the  hill. 

Jackdaws  are  fond  of  building  in  the  rocks,  whether 
inland  or  by  the  sea,  and  one  cannot  help  being 
struck  with  the  picturesqueness  of  the  spots  they  fix 
on  for  their  dwellings. 

Their  breezy  haunts,  high  up  in  these  grand  old 
cliffs,  are  overgrown  with  a  very  jungle  of  trees  of 
every  shade,  that  wreathe  their  arms  about  the  rifted 
crags.  From  their  homes  in  these  cool  recesses  the 
birds  look  out  hundreds  of  feet  sheer  down  to  the 
winding  road  below. 


134  By  Leafy  Ways. 

Along  the  valley  of  the  Dart,  where  every  wall  of 
sandstone  shelters  in  its  deep  crevices  a  colony  of 
daws,  the  very  ground  is  sometimes  honeycombed 
with  their  nests. 

As  you  make  your  way  slowly  up  the  steep  slope 
that  rises  from  the  river,  the  birds  fly  out  one  after 
another  from  their  holes,  and,  collecting  on  the  bushes 
that  fringe  the  cliff  overhead,  are  loud  in  their  ex- 
pressions of  disapprobation  as  you  stoop  to  examine 
their  burrows — expecting,  no  doubt,  a  confiscation  of 
their  portable  property — a  valuable  collection  of  bits 
of  string,  scraps  of  carpet,  and  nameless  odds  and 
ends. 

It  is  not  often  that  the  nests  are  actually  made  in 
the  ground.  Still  more  rarely  do  the  birds  build 
among  the  boughs  of  trees  ;  probably  not  more  than 
two  authenticated  cases  of  their  doing  so  are  on 
record. 

A  favourite  spot  is  the  tower  of  a  country  church, 
and  on  the  worn  stones  of  the  turret  stairway  the  jack- 
daws pile  their  heaps  of  sticks — sometimes  literally  a 
cartload  to  a  single  nest. 

In  one  instance  the  belfry  was  so  choked  with  the 
rubbish  collected  in  less  than  a  week  by  a  pair  of 
these  industrious  architects,  that  the  buried  bell  had 
to  be  dug  out  by  the  sexton  before  it  could  be 
rung. 

Now,  the  jackdaws  people  with  their  dusky  figures 
the  dismantled  keep  of  some  ruined  stronghold. 


'A   Great  Frequenter  of  the  Church.'     135 

Rising  above  the  clustering  hamlet  that  long  ago 
gathered  in  its  shadow,  its 

— crumbling  walls  look  down, 
That  played  a  stake  for  Charles's  sake 
In  the  game  of  Church  and  Crown. 

The  ivy  that  holds  in  friendly  grasp  the  failing  turrets 
shelters  in  its  knotted  coils  a  multitude  of  birds. 

Starlings  pile  their  untidy  nests  in  a  hundred 
niches. 

In  hollows  torn,  perhaps,  by  Roundhead  shot,  the 
jackdaws  rear  their  clamorous  young. 

One  is  tempted  to  fa-ncy  that  the  daws  which  tenant 
the  unnumbered  nooks  in  the  great  cathedral  wear  an 
air  of  mystery  and  reserve,  that  harmonizes  well  with 
their  surroundings.  There  is  an  old-world  look  about 
them.  One  can  half  imagine  that  there  are  legends 
handed  down  among  them  of  the  historic  pile  in  whose 
shadow  they  and  their  ancestors  have  for  centuries 
found  sanctuary;  that  as  they  flit  among  the  stony- 
eyed  effigies  of  saints  and  warriors  that  people  all 
the  noble  front,  their  speech  is  of  old  memories 
and  bygone  days.  Laud  and  Still,  Ken  and  Wolsey, 
ruled  in  the  solemn  aisles  beneath  them.  In  the 
cool  arcades  of  the  cloisters  trembling  monks  have 
talked  with  bated  breath  of  the  ill  deeds  of  King 
Harry. 

Across  the  moor,  in  the  ruins  of  the  famous  abbey, 
again  the  daws  have  made  a  settlement. 

Trailing  creepers,  that  glow  like  fire  under  the  touch 


136  By  Leafy  Ways. 

of  autumn,  hang  graceful  wreaths  round  the  ruined 
windows.  The  roofless  halls  are  hung  with  green 
waves  of  ivy  that  cling  about  the  broken  arches  and 
twine  lovingly  round  the  shattered  columns.  A  fringe 
of  fern-leaves  hangs  from  every  crevice.  Wallflowers 
bloom  upon  the  graceful  capitals. 

Vandal  hands  have  been  laid  upon  the  noble  fabric. 
Its  sculptured  stones  are  built  into  half  the  houses  of 
the  little  township.  The  very  roads  are  paved  with 
its  costly  fragments. 

It  is  the  island  valley  of  Avilion.     Still 

'  it  lies 

Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns 
And  bowery  hollows.' 

But  the  summer  sea  is  now  only  a  gleam  of  silver  on 
the  far  horizon. 

And  in  the  spring-time,  when  the  great  acacias,  that 
lean  as  if  to  caress  the  ruins  with  their  gentle  touch, 
just  show  signs  of  budding  green ;  when  the  swaying 
boughs  of  the  beech  that  screens  the  roofless  chapel 
are  bright  with  opening  leaves,  the  jackdaws  come 
back  from  their  winter  wanderings  and  build  their 
nests  here,  in  the  niches  of  the  ruined  tower ;  there,  in 
cosy  nooks  among  the  ivy.  Now  they  settle  down  for 
the  season  on  the  broken  stairway  that  hangs  midway 
up  the  wall. 

Over  all  there  cling  the  memories  of  the  vanished 
years.  The  voice  of  Dunstan  echoed  in  this  empty 
hall.  Beneath  that  turf  the  bones  of  Arthur  crumbled 


*  A   Great  Frequenter  of  the  Church.'     137 

into  dust.  Up  yonder  hill  the  last  Abbot  went  with- 
out flinching  to  his  shameful  doom.  The  armed 
rabble  of  '  King '  Monmouth  lit  their  camp  fires  in 
these  very  walls — 

And  the  troopers  saw,  by  the  wandering  glare. 
Grey,  shadowy  monks  on  the  ruined  stair  ; 
And  trembling  swore,  the  owls  o'erhead 
Were  the  restless  ghosts  of  the  angry  dead. 


SVLVAN    MINSTRELS. 


*~~PHE  woodland  ways,  still  glorious  in  their  rich 
October  dress,  are  yet  sorrowful  in  their  silence. 
Amid  all  the  splendour  of  the  crimson  and  the  gold 
we  miss  the  music  of  the  birds.  We  miss  the  mellow 
song  of  the  blackcap,  the  hasty  symphony  of  the 
white-throat,  the  gentle  cadence  of  the  willow-wren, 
and  the  voice  of  many  a  sweet  songster  beside. 

It  is  true  that  there  is  no  lack  of  life  among  the 
trees.  Here,  a  brown  squirrel  is  racing  over  the 
branches;  or,  seated  on  some  level  bough,  with  his 
brush  curled  over  his  back,  scatters  the  chips  of  fir- 
cones on  the  ground  beneath  him  ;  or,  peering  from 
behind  the  stem,  watches  with  bright  black  eyes  the 
advance  of  the  intruder.  There,  a  merry  party  of  long- 
tailed  titmice  chase  each  other  from  tree  to  tree  across 
the  wood.  Little  troops  of  gold-crests,  clustering  about 
the  pine-tops,  raise  their  tiny  voices  rejoicing  in  the 
sun.  Now,  the  soft  call-note  of  a  bullfinch  hardly 
breaks  the  stillness ;  now,  the  whole  wood  is  ringing 


Sylvan  Minstrels.  139 

with  the  screams  of  a  family  of  jays  ;  here,  chimes  in 
the  chatter  of  a  magpie ;  there,  rises  the  alarm  note  of 
a  missel-thrush  like  the  crash  of  breaking  boughs  in 
wintry  storms.  No,  there  is  no  lack  of  movement, 
but  there  is  a  dearth  of  music. 

There  are  birds  which  sing,  more  or  less,  throughout 
the  year — like  our  familiar  and  faithful  friends  the 
robin  and  the  wren.  But  the  spring-time  is  the  musical 
season. 

When  the  eggs  are  hatched  the  singers  break  off  one 
by  one,  and  devote  their  energies  to  their  family  cares. 

The  male  bird,  who  sang  over  and  over  again  all  his 
rich  store  of  melodies  to  cheer  his  mate  in  her  long 
and  patient  vigil,  has  time  for  music  no  longer. 

Hard  indeed  must  the  pair  toil  to  keep  their  insati- 
able nestlings  supplied  with  food.  From  dawn  to 
dark  it  is  one  continuous  labour. 

And  when  the  hush  of  night  has  settled  down  upon 
the  woodlands ;  when  the  glow  has  faded  from  the 
west,  and  soft  blue  shadows  gather  in  the  landscape, 
the  little  minstrels  are  fain  to  snatch  a  few  brief  hours 
of  sleep  before  the  glimmer  in  the  east  shall  rouse  once 
more  their  hungry  brood. 

In  the  early  spring,  commencing  even  before  the 
grip  of  winter  is  fairly  loosened  from  the  land,  the  song- 
thrush  is  the  chief  musician.  Not  half-hearted  and 
fickle,  like  the  nightingale  ;  not  given  to  breaking  off 
in  the  middle  of  a  bar,  like  the  blackcap  ;  but,  from  the 
•  top  of  a  wayside  elm,  or  from  the  shelter  of  a  spreading 


140  By  Leafy  Ways. 

beech-tree,  he  will  pour  his  wonderful  music  by  the 
hour  together — a  soft,  delicious,  perfect  piece  of 
melody. 

He  has  tuneful  kinsmen,  too.  Who  does  not  love 
to  listen  to  the  blackbird's  few  mellow  bars  in  the 
evening  twilight?  He  has  a  critical  taste  for  straw- 
berries, to  be  sure,  and  he  is  a  parlous  fellow  to  be  left 
alone  in  a  cherry-tree  ;  but  he  is  a  noble  minstrel,  and 
he  earns  his  wages. 

The  wild  song  of  the  missel-thrush  again  is  a  wel- 
come addition  to  the  orchestra ;  and  the  flyfisher,  who 
is  wise  enough  to  see  in  him  a  friend,  and  not  a  foe, 
would  be  loath  to  lose,  from  lonely  streams,  the 
company  and  the  melody  of  the  sprightly  dipper. 

The  nightingale,  at  his  best,  is  a  superb  and  peerless 
minstrel.  But  the  songster  of  the  Surrey  lanes  and 
the  pleasant  Hertfordshire  woodlands  might  be  of 
another  race  altogether  from  his  brother  in  the  west. 
In  the  combes  that  nestle  among  the  broken  ramparts 
of  the  Mendips,  the  nightingale  is  usually  but  a 
capricious  and  feeble  performer.  There  is  not  the 
keen  rivalry  which  in  the  home  counties  brings  the 
finest  singers  to  the  front.  He  is  on  the  Marches  of 
his  dominions  too,  and  perhaps  he  feels  himself  a 
stranger,  and  his  heart  is  otherwhere. 

But  if  the  nightingale  has  no  peer,  he  has  some 
musical  companions,  who,  for  the  most  part,  have  gone 
with  him  now  in  the  track  of  the  summer. 

Listen  on  the  edge  of  some  quiet  coppice  when  the 


Sylvan  Minstrels.  141 

hawthorn  is  out.  From  the  cool  depths  of  a  tangled 
thicket  comes  a  soft  and  flute  like  song — tender  and 
sweet,  and  full  of  melody — it  is 

The  blackcap's  breezy  strain  ; 
That  airily  floats,  in  liquid  notes, 
Through  the  shafts  of  the  leafy  dome, 
Where,  deftly  laid  in  the  woodbine-shade, 
Is  swinging  his  fairy  home. 

And,  through  the  hedgerow  near  him,  filters  the 
hurried  song  of  the  white-throat.  Now,  he  flickers  a 
few  feet  into  the  air,  singing  all  the  while.  Now,  he 
balances  on  a  spray,  -swelling  his  little  throat  with 
music  until  it  seems  positively  to  glow.  Now,  he  dis- 
appears in  the  hedge,  and  croons  a  quiet  melody  to 
himself  so  softly  that  you  fancy  him  in  the  next  field, 
until,  disturbed  by  the  approach  of  footsteps,  he 
dashes  from  cover,  with  angry  notes  of  alarm  and  in- 
dignation. 

Hard  by,  a  sober  hedge-sparrow  sings  his  modest 
lay.  He  stays  with  us  all  the  year.  He  never  grows 
discontented  with  the  cold,  or  the  shortness  of  pro- 
visions. He  is  deliberate  in  his  ditty,  as  a  steady  stay- 
at-home  might  be  expected  to  be.  His  is  a  simple 
strain  ;  there  are  no  variations  in  it ;  but  we  accept  it 
thankfully,  remembering  the  constancy  of  the  singer. 

The  skylark  too,  a  prince  of  song,  spreads  his 
quivering  wings  not  only  over  the  rich  May  meadows, 
but  a  sunny  day  even  in  October  will  tempt  him  up 
towards  the  blue  heaven,  in  such  an  ecstasy,  that  the 


142  By  Leafy  Ways. 

footsore  wanderer  on  the  dusty  highway  pauses  and 
turns  to  listen  to  a  strain,  which  carries  his  thoughts 
back,  perchance,  to  his  own  brighter  days  among  green 
fields  and  pleasant  lanes  ;  and  when  at  length  he  turns 
back  to  the  reality  of  his  dreary  tramp,  he  may  even 
hum  a  stave  of  some  long-forgotten  ballad  about  the 
flowers,  and  the  birds,  and  the  spring-time. 

The  voices  of  birds  which  have  no  gift  of  song  may 
be  heard  the  whole  year  through.  Such  are  the 
Corvidff — the  crows. 

The  whole  race,  from  the  raven  to  the  chough,  have 
voices  harsh,  monotonous,  unmusical ;  and  their 
gorgeous  relatives  in  the  far  East,  the  birds  of  Paradise, 
are  no  better  off.  When  Dr.  Johnson,  in  '  The  Story 
of  a  Day,'  relates  how  the  ears  of  Obidah,  the  son  of 
Abensina,  were  delighted  as  he  '  pursued  his  journey 
through  the  plains  of  Hindostan,'  by  cthe  morning 
song  of  the  bird  of  Paradise,'  the  statement  is  open  to 
much  the  same  kind  of  criticism  as  that  which  Cuvier 
is  said  to  have  bestowed  on  the  Academicians'  defini- 
tion of  a  crab ;  for  the  bird  is  not  found  in  India  ;  and 
its  morning  song,  as  described  by  Mr.  Wallace,  is 
'  waivk,  wawk,  wowk ;  wok,  wok,  wok.' 

There  is  not  much  in  the  woodlands  of  '  the  wood- 
pecker tapping  the  hollow  beech-tree.'  The  familiar 
green  species  finds  his  food  chiefly  on  the  ground 
but  his  voice  is  often  heard — a  merry  voice  enough — 
a  reveller's  laugh,  in  spite  of  Buffon's  idea  that  wood- 
peckers are  a  melancholy  race. 


Sylvan  Minstrels.  143 

They  are  common  in  many  places,  but  are  no  more 
to  be  seen  by  the  careless  observer  than  the  Dryads 
themselves.  At  the  sound  of  footsteps  they  will  shrink 
behind  sheltering  branches  or  climb  high  up  into  their 
leafy  citadels ;  and  it  is  only  the  quiet,  patient  watcher 
who  does  much  more  than  catch  a  passing  glimpse  of 
the  gay  green  livery  and  the  gallant  crimson  crest. 

There  are  many  other  birds  which,  although  not 
endowed  with  song,  help  to  cheer  the  woodland  ways 
with  merry  throats. 

The  year  will  have  barely  opened  ere  the  great  tit- 
mouse and  his  genial  friends  will  raise  their  ringing  call- 
notes  in  every  lane  and  wood  and  orchard,  clear  and 
musical  in  the  sharp  January  air,  like  the  clink  of  iron 
upon  the  village  anvil. 

There  is  music  in  the  fierce  cry  of  the  kestrel  as  his 
keen  wings  bear  him  up  to  his  fastness  in  the  rocks  ; 
in  the  joyous  screaming  of  a  troop  of  swifts  as  they 
revel  in  their  empire  of  the  air ;  in  the  very  drone  of 
the  nightjar,  sailing  over  the  meadows  in  the  dusk  to 
pick  up  a  moth  for  his  supper ;  and  in  the  solemn 
stillness  of  a  moonlight  night,  there  is  music  in  '  the 
lonely  owl's  halloo.' 


WINTER    VISITORS. 


A  L THOUGH  no  longer  on  our  coasts  descend  the 
keels  of  the  Norsemen,  and  although  sea  rovers 
are  as  rare  as  the  sea-serpent,  yet  each  autumn  there 
comes  on  us  still  from  the  hungry  North  a  host  of 
clamorous  invaders.  The  wide  stretches  of  level  land 
along  the  shores  of  rivers,  the  muddy  flats  left  by  the 
retreating  tide,  are  peopled  anew  by  the  wild  fowl  that 
deserted  them  in  the  spring.  From  Norwegian  fjelds 
and  forests,  from  the  wide  plains  of  Siberia,  even 
from  near  the  Pole  itself,  great  flights  of  these  winter 
visitors  are  trooping  fast.  Once  more  the  snow  lies 
deep  upon  the  marshes  that  in  the  brief  summer  of 
the  North  awoke  and  kindled  into  life,  and  glowed 
with  rich  rank  verdure.  Once  more  over  the  desolate 
wastes  there  reigns  the  silence  of  the  dreary  winter. 

Along  the  Eastern  coasts  we  may  watch  at  early 
dawn,  high  up  on  the  grey  sky,  the  long  columns  of 
the  invading  army. 

Flocks  of  geese  in  the  orderly  grey  wedges  that 
delight  the  heart  of  the  wild-fowler ;  strings  of  teal 


Winter  Visitors.  145 

and  widgeon  ;  companies  even  of  the  great  whooping 
swan,  whose  mighty  pinions  sound  so  strangely  as 
they  pass  by  night ;  vast  crowds  of  snipe,  greenshanks, 
dotterels,  plovers — perhaps  even  a  few  phalarope,  are 
borne  along  with  the  waves  of  the  great  inroad. 

From  our  own  moorlands,  as  well  as  from  remoter 
breeding  stations,  comes  down  the  curlew,  at  the 
sound  of  whose  plaintive  cry  you  will  put  in  a  wire 
cartridge,  and  lie  down  in  your  boat. 

Armies  of  ducks,  frozen  out  of  their  Arctic  feeding 
grounds,  settle  down  on  the  brown  waters  of  broad 
river  mouths. 

On  every  muddy  shore  flocks  of  sandpipers,  re- 
turned from  their  haunts  by  the  Polar  Sea,  gather  into 
clouds  that  sail  up  and  down  the  wintry  beach  with 
musical  and  mournful  cries. 

Now  they  stand  out  a  myriad  points  of  silver  on  the 
cold  grey  heaven  ;  now  they  are  lost  again  as  they 
wheel  with  the  precision  of  a  troop  of  cavalry;  now 
'they  pour  along  like  a  fire  that  sweeps  the  whole 
earth  before  it ;'  now  they  settle  down  on  the  shore 
and  run  this  way  and  that  probing  the  mud  with  their 
long  bills  in  search  of  food,  and  leaving  mazes  of  light 
footprints  on  the  yielding  surface. 

Flights  of  woodcocks,  suddenly  descending  like  a 
waterspout  from  their  airy  highway,  alight  spent  and 
breathless  on  the  land.  Then  scattering  over  the 
country  they  return  to  their  haunts  of  the  previous 
autumn. 

10 


146  By  Leafy  Ways. 

Woodcocks,  like  many  other  birds  which  seem  to 
belong  more  to  the  winter  than  the  summer,  breed  in 
our  islands  to  a  limited  extent,  but  this  fixed  popula- 
tion is  always  largely  recruited  by  a  great  influx  of 
strangers. 

Not  only  is  the  coast  thus  taken  possession  of. 
There  is  not  a  country  parish  in  which  troops  of  field- 
fares are  not  quartered  for  the  winter ;  which  is  not 
visited  by  flights  of  redwings.  While  in  more  secluded 
districts  the  woodcock  and  the  snipe  are  lying ;  per- 
haps a  hawfinch  or  two,  or  little  company  of  siskins, 
may  settle  down,  while  the  resident  population  even 
of  goldcrests  is  augmented  by  additions  from  beyond 
the  sea. 

A  much  rarer  autumn  guest  than  these  is  the  cross- 
bill, a  bird  which  is  not  often  seen  in  sufficient 
numbers  to  attract  attention ;  but  there  are  quaint 
allusions  in  the  old  writers  to  its  appearance  in  these 
islands  in  vast  flights,  when  the  damage  done  by  it  in 
the  apple-orchards  proved  its  seemingly  malformed 
beak  to  be  a  very  serviceable  weapon  indeed. 

Siskins  again  are  somewhat  irregular  in  their  visits. 
They  appear  in  numbers  one  winter,  and  then  years 
may  elapse  before  they  are  seen  again  in  the  same 
district. 

The  haunt  of  the  siskin  is  among  the  alder-trees 
that  fringe  some  quiet  stream  far  from  sight  or  sound 
of  man.  As  you  draw  near  no  birds  are  visible ; 
everything  is  still  and  silent,  but  before  you  reach  the 


Winter  Visitors.  147 

trees  a  little  troop  of  siskins  fly  up  from  the  alder- 
seeds  that  lie  scattered  on  the  ground,  with  strange 
metallic  notes,  and  alight  among  the  trees  farther 
down  the  stream. 

Give  them  a  few  minutes  to  settle  down  again,  and 
then  steal  along  in  the  shelter  of  the  old  willow,  whose 
rifted  trunk  leans  over  the  water.  There  they  are,  the 
whole  tribe  of  them,  busy  among  the  catkins,  clinging 
in  ever-changfng  graceful  attitudes  to  the  brown 
clusters  that  hang  among  the  swaying  boughs. 

It  is  well  for  them  that  they  have  found  a  sanctuary 
like  this.  Too  often,  alas  !  our  feathered  visitors  meet 
their  death  within  our  borders.  We  show  no  favour 
to  the  oriole  ;  we  give  no  shelter  to  the  waxwing. 

And  as  long  as  there  are  those  who  think  that  the 
possession  of  the  stuffed  and  mounted  skin  is  more  to 
be  desired  than  the  delight  of  watching  the  living  bird 
in  the  enjoyment  of  its  freedom,  and  write  with  pride 
to  the  papers  of  their  '  success  in  bagging '  a  whole 
flock  of  rare  visitors,  there  is  small  hope  that  the 
bustard  will  once  more  run  free  on  Salisbury  Plain,  of 
that  the  crane  will  come  back  to  his  long-deserted 
haunt  among  the  fens. 

To  the  true  lover  of  Nature  the  pleasure  lies, 
not  in  promptly  slaying  each  new  and  too  trustful 
feathered  stranger,  but  in  watching  the  manners  and 
customs  of  the  children  of  the  air. 

He  is  willing  to  lie  quiet  in  the  shelter  of  some 
friendly  screen  of  leafage,  while  the  wary  coal-tit  carries 


148  By  Leafy  Ways. 

into  her  own  particular  chink  those  materials  out  of 
which  she  and  her  mate  will  frame  their  soft  and  cosy 
habitation. 

He  will  face  the  wet  grass  of  a  late  June  morning, 
and  lie  hidden  in  a  ditch  to  watch  the  kestrel  take  her 
plunder  to  her  fierce  brood  high  up  in  the  limestone 
cliff. 

For  him  the  woodland  ways  are  full  of  ever  new 
delight.  Each  hedgerow  has  its  feathered  tenants ; 
each  ancient  tree  is  the  haunt  of  one  or  other  of  his 
gentle  vassals. 


ADAPTED    PLUMAGE. 


*T*HE  cold  hand  of  Winter  not  only  cuts  down  the 
late  lingering  flowers,  and  scatters  the  few  last 
leaves  upon  the  woodland  path,  but  leaves  the  white 
print  of  icy  fingers  on  the  very  plumage  of  the  birds. 

The  feathers  of  some,  such  as  the  snow-bunting,  he 
touches  lightly  here  and  there  as  with  a  few  flakes  of 
early  snow.  Others,  like  the  ptarmigan,  whose  sober 
colouring  has  all  through  the  summer  matched  so  well 
the  browns  and  greys  of  the  heather,  and  the  lichen 
of  her  home  among  the  mountains,  he  clothes  with  a 
dress  as  white  as  the  very  snowdrift  which  enwraps  her 
winter  home. 


150  By  Leafy  Ways. 

The  ptarmigan  is  with  us  a  Highland  bird,  not 
being  found  in  England  at  all.  In  other  countries, 
where  not  strictly  Arctic  in  its  range,  it  frequents 
mountainous  districts,  generally  at  a  great  height  above 
sea-level. 

The  white  birds  so  conspicuous  in  our  winter 
markets  are  chiefly  willow  grouse.  They  are  larger 
than  ptarmigan,  and  are  without  the  black  stripe  which 
crosses  the  eye  of  that  bird. 

Although  there  are  but  few  species  whose  garb  is 
thus  completely  altered  in  the  winter  season,  there  are 
many  in  whose  plumage  a  marked  change  takes  place, 
generally  in  the  direction  of  more  sombre  tones  and 
less  conspicuous  colouring.  The  linnet,  for  example, 
loses  the  vivid  touch  of  crimson  from  his  glossy  crown ; 
the  flush  of  carmine  from  his  delicate  breast.  And 
the  twittering  companies  which  fly  over  the  winter 
stubble  are  dull  indeed  compared  with  their  appear- 
ance early  in  the  year,  when  the  rival  songsters,  each 
on  the  top  of  his  favourite  fyrze  bush,  fill  the  air  with 
sweet  snatches  of  most  ethereal  song. 

It  is,  indeed,  in  the  spring,  in  the  pairing-time,  that 
birds  are  at  their  best  and  brightest : 

'  In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast, 
In  the  spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest.' 

When  the  broods  have  flown  begins  the  annual 
moult,  often  accompanied  by  some  change  in  appear- 
ance. 


Adapted  Plumage.  151 

There  is  also  towards  winter  a  thickening  of  the 
feathers  as  a  defence  against  the  cold. 

A  series  of  careful  observations,  made  under  the 
idea  that  one  cause  of  migration  might  be  that  some 
birds  possessed  warmer  blood  than  others,  seemed 
merely  to  show  that  birds  of  powerful  flight  have  a 
higher  blood-heat  than  less  active  species.  The  swift, 
for  example,  measured  no  less  than  107  deg.  F. ;  but 
that  was  no  more  than  could  be  said  of  the  green 
woodpecker. 

At  the  approach  of  winter  the  oyster-catcher — plain 
enough  to  be  seen  at  all  times  with  his  black  and 
white  dress  and  his  bright  red  beak,  as  he  wanders 
over  the  beach  at  low  water,  making  himself  still 
plainer  by  his  strange  cry — gets  himself  a  white  band 
across  his  dusky  breast. 

Several  of  the  plovers  and  sandpipers  lose  their 
dark  and  conspicuous  markings.  The  phalarope, 
whose  summer  attire  is  faced  with  red,  comes  to  our 
shores  in  a  delicate  suit  of  white  and  grey.  All  these 
and  many  other  changes,  seen  at  their  extreme  in  the 
ptarmigan,  are  no  doubt  meant  as  aids  to  concealment 
n  a  bare  and  wintry  landscape. 

The  plumage  of  birds  in  general,  especially  of  tho?o 
which  make  their  nests  on  the  ground,  will  be  found 
to  harmonize  to  a  great  extent  with  their  usual  sur- 
roundings. The  dress  of  the  snipe,  for  instance, 
clouded  as  it  is  with  shades  of  brown  and  streaked 
with  markings  like  a  few  casual  blades  of  withered 


152  By  Leafy  Ways. 

sedge,  is  most  happily  assimilated  to  its  haunts  among 
the  dry  grass  of  windy  moors,  and  the  rustling  flags  on 
the  fringe  of  quiet  pools. 

It  was  well  said  by  Bewick  that  at  a  little  distance 
the  woodcock  appears  '  exactly  like  the  withered  stalks 
and  leaves  of  ferns,  sticks,  moss,  and  grasses  which 
form  the  background  of  the  scenery  by  which  it  is 
sheltered  in  its  moist  and  solitary  retreats.' 

Another  bird  of  particularly  quiet  and  inconspicuous 
plumage  is  the  nightjar.  A  shy  and  retiring  visitor,  a 
very  late  arrival  from  the  south,  she  goes  far  afield  to 
find  a  place  where  she  may  bring  up  her  small  family 
without  fear  of  interruption ;  and  when  she  lies  close 
among  the  stones  of  the  hillside,  or  the  dry  grass  of 
the  upland  pasture,  screened  by  tall  clumps  of 
bracken,  she  is  hardly  distinguishable  from  the 
ground. 

It  is  a  red-letter  day  in  the  life  of  the  young  naturalist 
when  for  the  first  time  he  flushes  a  nightjar  from  her 
eggs.  Without  a  sound  to  betray  her  flight,  she  glides 
away  with  apparent  difficulty,  and  settles  on  a  neigh- 
bouring tree,  whence,  perched  along  instead  of  across 
the  bough,  she  watches  the  proceedings  of  the  intruder. 
Should  he  fallow  her,  fancying  her  to  be  lame  or 
unable  to  fly  far,  she  will  lure  him  on  like  a  lapwing. 
But  if  he  has  kept  his  eyes  on  the  spot  she  rose  from 
he  may  be  fortunate  enough  to  find,  at  his  feet,  laid 
on  the  bare  ground  without  a  feather  or  a  straw  by 
way  of  nest,  those  two  exquisite  eggs,  like  white 


Adapted  Plumage.  153 

marble  veined  with  soft  shades  of  grey,  which  will 
rank  among  the  fairest  prizes  in  his  cabinet. 

The  colours  of  the  lapwing  are  not  much  of  a  pro- 
tection to  her,  but  her  eggs  are  often  hard  to  find  on 
the  burnt  grass  with  which  they  harmonize  so  well. 
All  around  are  the  brown  stretches  of  the  moor — or, 
perhaps,  the  breezy  level  of  the  old  Roman  encamp- 
ment. High  overheard,  against  the  blue  April  sky, 
sail  the  '  wanton  '  lapwings,  on  broad  and  whistling 
pinions.  Now  they  turn  over  and  over  in  the  air, 
now  they  sweep  down  close  at  hand,  now  they  alight 
at  a  distance  and  make  believe  to  be  visiting  their 
eggs.  Now  they  fly  round  with  shrill  cries  of  lament 
and  protestation,  louder  and  more  vehement  as  the 
steps  of  the  intruder  approach  the  longed-for  spoil. 
Finally,  they  accompany  him  off  the  ground  exulting 
in  his  defeat  and  their  escape  from  plunder. 

The  comparatively  sober  colour  of  hen  birds  in 
general  is  no  doubt  to  protect  them  from  observation 
while  sitting  on  their  eggs.  The  cock  bird  always 
takes  care  of  himself.  Who  has  ever  known  the  glossy 
mallard  or  the  handsome  eider  stand  by  his  wife  and 
family  at  the  approach  of  danger  ?  He  is  off  at  once, 
while  the  staid  and  sombre  duck,  full  of  anxiety,  does 
her  best  to  hurry  her  brood  into  a  place  of  safety. 

Just  as  decorative  plumage  pure  and  simple  reaches 
its  highest  pitch  in  the  adornment  of  the  Birds  of 
Paradise,  so  the  extreme  of  contrast  is  here  presented 
between  the  male  and  the  female. 


154  By  Leafy  Ways. 

It  is  not  twenty-five  years  since  Mr.  Wallace's  two 
magnificent  specimens  of  the  Emerald  Bird  of  Paradise 
delighted  the  eyes  of  visitors  to  the  Zoological  Gardens. 
Most  of  us  have  to  be  content  with  the  skins  alone ; 
and  even  then,  dried  and  distorted  as  the  finest  speci- 
mens must  always  be,  few  objects  in  nature  will  bear 
comparison  with  their  marvellous  beauty.  The  soft 
and  delicate  tones  of  the  colouring — the  emerald 
throat,  the  yellow  crown,  the  rich  brown  of  the  wings 
and  tail,  the  wonder  of  the  flowing  plumes  which  fall 
round  the  living  bird  like  a  shower  of  gold — all  these 
render  the  Great  and  the  Lesser  Birds  of  Paradise 
two  of  the  finest  gems  in  the  vast  treasure-house  of 
Nature.  This  description  applies  to  the  male  alone ; 
his  wife  is  of  a  plain  and  sober  brown — uniform 
enough  to  satisfy  the  soul  of  the  primmest  Quakeress 
of  the  ancient  school. 

Birds  which  lay  their  eggs  in  holes  are  less  exposed 
to  danger,  and  the  difference  between  male  and  female, 
if  it  exist  at  all,  is  much  less  strongly  marked. 

The  green  woodpecker  is  a  case  in  point.  He  is  a 
handsome  bird.  Although  the  bright  colour  of  his 
forester's  dress  harmonizes  very  well  with  the  tone  ot 
his  haunt  among  the  orchards,  and  although  his 
solitary  ways  keep  him  mostly  out  of  sight,  yet  once 
observed,  his  crimson  crest  and  yellow  tail-coverts 
catch  the  eye  in  a  moment.  And  his  wife,  except  for 
an  extra  patch  of  red  on  his  cheek,  is  as  gay  as  he. 
She  and  her  brood,  however,  in  their  hollowed  home 


Adapted  Plumage.  155 

deep  in  the  heart  of  a  tree,  are  safe  from  the  keen  eye 
of  prowling  weasel  or  marauding  hawk,  and  need  no 
protection  from  subdued  colouring. 

The  kingfisher,  another  hole-breeder,  is  more  bril- 
liant still ;  and  here  again  the  hen  bird  vies  with  her 
mate  in  the  brightness  of  her  colours.  Under  a  glass 
case,  perched  stiffly  on  a  twig  in  what  the  bird-stuffer 
regards  as  a  natural  attitude,  he  is  rather  an  ungainly 
object. 

But  in  his  haunt  by  the  sylvan  stream  he  is  the  eye 
of  the  picture — the  finishing  touch  to  the  landscape. 

The  little  river  wanders  through  rich  meadows  .that 
in  summer  are  bright  with  purple  spikes  of  loose-strife, 
and  the  golden  wings  of  the  flower  de  luce.  There  is 
a  devious  footpath  over  rustic  bridges,  but  wayfarers 
are  few  and  far  between.  Dark  alders  lean  over  the 
banks ;  forests  of  tall  sedges  cluster  lovingly  round 
the  roots  of  the  grey  willow  trees.  There  is  no  sound 
but  the  drone  of  the  old  Norman  mill  and  the  plash 
of  water  over  the  ancient  wheel ;  or  now  and  then  the 
cry  of  a  creeper  in  the  great  sycamore,  or  the  leap  of 
a  trout,  or  the  plunge  of  a  water-rat.  It  is  a  place 

Where  timid  rail  and  moorhen  hide 

In  the  tufted  sedge  by  the  riverside  ; 

Where  dusky  coots,  with  careless  oar, 

The  silver  pools  drift  idly  o'er  ; 

Where  the  grey  heron  looks  silent  down 

On  the  trout  that  flash  through  the  shadows  brown ; 

Where  fiery  marsh-flowers  stoop  to  lave 

Their  golden  bells  in  the  whirling  wave. 


156  By  Leafy  Ways. 

Suddenly,  from  his  unseen  station — a  flash  of  blue 
light  along  the  brown  water  —  darts  a  kingfisher. 
Down  he  goes ;  there  is  a  gleam  of  red  and  azure 
among  the  silver  of  the  scattered  spray ;  then,  with  a 
minnow  glittering  in  his  beak,  he  goes  back  to  his 
perch  on  the  low  bough  hanging  over  the  water,  to 
beat  the  life  out  of  his  prey  before  swallowing  it.  Or 
maybe  he  carries  it  off  to  the  steep  bank  below  the 
weir,  where,  half  hidden  by  ferns  and  trailing  ivy,  and 
screened  by  the  great  elms  which  join  hands  across 
the  stream,  his  expectant  brood,  standing  up  like 
storks  at  the  mouth  of  their  hole,  scream  a  chorus  of 
impatience  and  delight  at  the  appearance  of  dinner. 


OUTLAWS. 


Spif  •••-,  HE  reader  of  history, 
while  regarding  with 
a  doubtful  eye  the  exploits  of 
heroes  like  Robin  Hood  and 
his  bold  companions,  would 
yet  be  loath  to  lose  these  pic- 
turesque traditions,  these  vivid 
touches  of  colour — scattered  all 

too  sparingly  in  the  staid  and  sober  chronicle. 
With  similar  feelings  the  naturalist  contemplates 
those  outlawed  clans  of  birds  and  beasts  which 
are  viewed  askance  by  the  world  at  large,  which  the 
farmer  shoots  without  trial,  and  the  keeper  hangs  up 


158  By  Leafy  Ways. 

without  hope  of  reprieve.  He  knows  how  he  would 
miss  from  the  landscape  the  bold  colouring  of  the 
magpie,  the  bright  plumage  of  the  jay,  the  marvellous 
poise  of  the  kestrel ;  and  knowing  that,  in  spite  of  all 
that  may  be  said  to  their  discredit,  their  virtues  are 
much  greater  than  their  vices — that  some  are  quite 
innocent,  and  that  even  the  crow  is  not  so  black  as  he 
is  painted — he,  at  least,  would  let  the  hawk  go  by  and 
spare  even  the  magpie  from  its  doom. 

It  is  true  that  the  teaching  of  the  village  school  and 
even  the  machinery  of  the  common  law  have  done 
much  in  their  defence,  but  there  are  still  whole  races 
— the  birds  of  prey,  for  instance — which  are  more  or 
less  under  the  ban. 

The  keeper  is  for  the  most  part  beyond  the  reach 
of  softening  influences.  There  rot  upon  his  gallows 
the  remains  not  only  of  the  sparrow-hawk  and  the 
magpie,  the  owl  and  the  kestrel,  but  even  of  the 
woodpecker  and  the  nightjar — birds  capable  of  doing 
rather  less  harm  to  the  game  than  the  Babes  in  the 
Wood. 

The  royal  eagle  is  indeed  no  longer  ruthlessly  shot 
or  trapped  wherever  he  may  appear ;  in  some  of  the 
deer  forests  protection  is  even  afforded  him.  But  to 
the  buzzard  and  the  peregrine  no  such  mercy  is 
shown;  and  those  which  are  not  slaughtered  in  the 
supposed  interests  of  game-preserving,  become  the 
prey  of  the  dealer  and  the  collector.  The  latter  has 
much  to  answer  for.  Although  rewards  are  no  longer 


Outlaws.  159 

offered  by  rural  vestries  for  the  heads  of  kites  and 
crows,  the  price  that  the  collector  cheerfully  pays  for 
a  good  specimen — a  price  which  might  make  the 
worthy  churchwardens  turn  in  their  graves,  is  an  even 
stronger  inducement  to  bring  down  every  strange  bird 
that  may  appear  in  the  parish.  The  kite,  once  com- 
mon in  the  very  streets  of  London,  is  now  so  rare  that 
we  have  but  little  chance  of  studying  its  habits  at  all 
in  this  country. 

The  buzzard  happily  still  survives  among  the  Welsh 
mountains  and  in  similar  districts.  On  parts  of  Dart- 
moor it  is  quite  a  feature  in  the  landscape,  when  sail- 
ing slowly  in  wide  circles  on  its  broad  and  stately 
wings  it  calls  now  and  then  to  its  mate  with  a  strange 
cry  which  is  audible  when  the  bird  itself  is  almost  lost 
in  the  blue. 

Mice  and  beetles  are  probably  its  chief  food  fcr 
most  of  the  year,  though  its  requirements  are  greater 
when  it  has  young  to  provide  for.  A  buzzard  seen  to 
alight  on  a  hillside  in  Wales  rose  into  the  air  with  a 
long  snake  writhing  in  its  grasp. 

The  noble  peregrine,  although  no  longer  finding 
shelter  as  it  once  did  in  the  towers  of  Westminster 
Abbey,  lingers  in  many  places  on  our  coasts.  Making 
its  home  in  the  steep  face  of  some  sea-beaten  cliff,  it 
rears  its  brood  in  defiance  of  the  boldest  climber ; 
and,  sallying  forth  from  its  rocky  fastness,  it  will 
flutter  with  terrible  effect  the  pigeons  of  the  farmer's 
dovecote ;  while  the  partridge  and  the  teal  have  small 


160  By  Leafy  Ways. 

hope  of  escape  from  the  rush  of  its  untiring  wings,  and 
the  fatal  stroke  of  its  resistless  talons. 

The  commonest  of  the  race,  the  kestrel,  far  from 
being  a  foe  to  the  farmer  or  the  keeper,  is  a  staunch 
ally.  No  poacher  is  he ;  no  harrier  of  hen-coops  ; 
even  the  lark  and  the  linnet  may  for  the  most  part  go 
free  for  hitn.  His  game  is  usually  nothing  more 
mbitious  than  moles  or  field-mice  ;  while  the  chafer 
and  the  dor-beetle  furnish  perhaps  even  the  greater 
part  of  his  diet. 

The  kestrel  will  often  take  possession  of  the 
abandoned  nest  of  a  crow,  but  is  fond,  when  he  can 
get  it,  of  a  fortress  in  the  rocks. 

In  a  niche  high  up  in  the  cliff,  half  hidden  perhaps 
by  ancient  whitebeam  and  rowans,  which  cling  with 
roots  like  talons  to  the  battered  crags,  and  fringed 
with  the  grey-green  tongues  of  limestone-loving  ferns, 
the  rich  brown  eggs,  the  coveted  spoil  of  the  young 
collector,  are  laid  and  hatched  with  no  more  nest  than 
the  earth  which  decayed  leaves  or  w'nter  storms  have 
strewn  lightly  over  the  stony  surface. 

From  such  an  eyrie  the  keen-eyed  hawk  looks  far 
out  over  the  landscape.  Sweeping  down  upon  the 
lowlands  with  a  few  beats  of  his  strong  wings,  he 
lingers  a  moment  perhaps  in  the  dark  fir-trees  in  the 
lane  below,  then  drifts  leisurely  down  the  valley  on  his 
morning  raid.  Now  he  poises  in  mid  air.  His  wings 
spread  wide  and  motionless  to  catch  the  breeze,  or 
rapidly  vibrating  in  the  still  ether ;  his  broad  tail 


Outlaws.  161 

expanded  to  the  full,  the  sunlight  glowing  on  his  chest- 
nut back.  Suddenly  closing  his  pinions,  he  falls  like 
a  stone. 

Rising  again,  he  continues  his  foray,  hovering  here 
and  there  over  coppice  and  meadow,  stooping  down  at 
times  upon  his  hapless  quarry,  and  at  last  bearing  his 
booty  up  to  his  fierce  eyasses  in  the  cliff. 

All  a-row  upon  the  threshold  stand  the  bold  young 
brood,  and  await  with  eager  screams  their  sire's 
return. 

Scale  the  rocks  and  visit  the  eyrie.  The  old  bird 
floats  overhead  with"  wild  outcries  of  defiance.  The 
undaunted  brood  ruffle  up  their  feathers,  throw  them- 
selves on  their  backs  in  the  farthest  corner  of  their 
cave  and  make  a  brave  show  of  fight  with  beak  and 
claws.  Before  them  lies  the  untouched  repast — a 
mole.  Scattered  under  the  nest  are  innumerable 
pellets  —the  undigested  remains  of  many  banquets, 
consisting  mainly  of  the  fur  of  small  animals,  and 
glittering  with  the  elytra  of  carabi  and  dor-beetles ; 
traces  of  feathers  few  or  none. 

The  sparrow-hawk  is  a  bird  of  quite  another  way  of 
living.  His  method  of  hunting  is  less  picturesque, 
perhaps  ;  his  quarry  is  more  ambitious.  He  skims 
swiftly  over  the  fields,  and  just  clearing  the  hedge, 
pounces  on  the  unexpectant  finch  or  bunting  who  is 
pluming  himself  on  the  other  side.  He  has  a  way  of 
suddenly  appearing  in  a  farmyard  and  snatching  up  a 
stray  chicken.  Even  a  ringdove  is  not  too  large  for 

1.1 


162  By  Leafy  Ways. 

him,  and  he  will  overtake  a  partridge  in  the  open 
field.  No  bird,  indeed,  is  safe  •  a  few  bright  feathers 
scattered  by  some  lonely  path  mark  the  fate  even  of 
the  jay  and  the  green  woodpecker. 

The  sparrowhawk  will  sometimes  attack  a  crow. 
The  duel  is  fought  in  mid-air.  The  hawk  skilfully 
wheeling  about  his  sable  antagonist  makes  now  and 
then  frantic  clutches  at  his  back  ;  the  lumbering  crow, 
with  hoarse  notes  of  anger  and  defiance,  does  his 
best  to  meet  his  active  enemy  on  the  point  of  the 
bayonet.  And  so  they  drift  over  the  crest  of  the  hill 
and  disappear. 

Both  birds  have  a  bad  character.  Have  they  been 
quarrelling  over  the  division  of  plunder,  or  has  the 
extremity  of  hunger  driven  the  hawk  to  attack  a  bird 
larger  than  himself? 

He  is,  in  truth,  a  bold  marauder.  Instances  have 
been  known  of  his  dashing  through  a  window  in  chase 
of  a  lark  or  sparrow  that  had  taken  sanctuary  from  its 
fierce  pursuer  even  within  the  dwelling  of  man.  One 
was  caught  in  a  drawing-room  in  the  act  of  dragging  a 
canary  through  the  bars  of  its  cage. 

Few  rustics  when  armed  with  a  gun  will  let  an  owl 
of  any  sort  go  by  scot-free.  They  shake  their  heads 
when  told  that  they  are  killing  a  useful  destroyer  of 
vermin. 

'  Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  sentiment 
Who  put  their  trust  in  bullorks  and  in  beeves.' 

Some   years  since  a  row  of  stately  elms  was   the 


Outlaws.  163 

pride  of  a  West-country  village.  They  might  have  been 
saplings  when  Monmouth  marched  his  men  through 
the  parish  on  the  way  to  Sedgemoor.  They  were 
known  in  all  the  district  as  '  the  place  where  the  great 
white  owl  do  bide.'  In  an  evil  hour  the  owner,  with 
an  eye  to  filling  his  pocket,  had  the  trees  cut  down. 
Within  the  hollow  trunk  of  that  particular  elin  which 
had  been  the  home  of  the  owls  was  a  heap  of  bones 
and  fur — the  long  accumulated  relics  of  many  a  moon- 
light foray.  Careful  search  among  these  remains 
brought  to  light  some  half-dozen  skulls  of  small  birds 
amid  a  very  charnel-house  of  crania  of  mice  and  moles. 

Another  band  of  outlaws  with  characters  worse  even 
than  those  of  the  birds  of  prey  are  the  crow  and  his 
dark  companions. 

They  are  all  of  great  use  at  times,  but  their  lives  are 
mostly  stained  with  rapine  and  murder. 

There  is  something  weird  and  gloomy  about  the 
king  of  the  race — the  raven.  It  is  hard  not  to  read  in 
his  dismal  croak  an  omen  of  evil.  His  iron  bill  is  a 
terrible  instrument  of  destruction  to  lambs  in  outlying 
pastures  of  Exmoor ;  and  woe  betide  the  unhappy 
beast  that,  worn  out  with  age  and  hardship,  sinks 
down  exhausted  on  the  open  moorland.  In  this  case, 
however,  superstition  is  a  powerful  factor  in  his  preser- 
vation. 

The  countryman  of  the  Mendips,  where  the  sable 
bird  is  still  sometimes  seen,  willing  enough  to  risk  his 
neck  iii  plundering  the  cliff-built  nest  of  hawk  or  rock 


164  By  Leafy  Ways. 

dove,  will  not  touch  the  eyrie  of  the  raven.  Stories 
are  even  now  told,  with  bated  breath,  of  the  fate  which 
befell  men,  still  remembered  in  the  village,  who  had 
dared  to  rob  the  nest  or  shoot  the  birds. 

The  services  of  the  rook  are  now  generally  recog- 
nised. His  hands  are  not  altogether  clean  in  the 
matter  of  newly-sown  grain  or  potatoes,  but  he  is  an 
angel  of  light  by  the  side  of  his  cousin  the  crow,  who, 
according  to  the  popular  account,  only  takes  to  killing 
grabs  when  eggs  are  scarce  and  it  is  not  the  season 
for  chickens. 

But  the  magpie  is  the  Ishmaelite  of  the  race.  If 
his  hand  is  not  against  every  man,  every  man's  hand 
is  certainly  against  him.  He  knows  it  well.  He 
builds  himself  a  mighty  fortress  in  the  top  of  some 
tall  fir  tree,  or  in  the  heart  of  an  ancient  blackthorn, 
and  he  bars  the  approaches  with  outworks  of  thorns 
jmd  sticks  until  the  whole  tree  bristles  like  a  hedgehog. 
He  is  a  bold  and  barefaced  bandit,  of  whose  ill-deeds 
most  raisers  of  poultry  have  to  complain. 

The  jay,  however,  is  not  far  behind  in  evil  reputa- 
tion, both  in  the  farmyard  and  the  cover.  He  is 
a  handsome  bird  ;  indeed,  we  have  few  to  match  him ; 
and  that  is  no  doubt  another  reason  why  he  is  so 
seldom  spared.  Now  that  the  fashion  seems  to  have 
been  firmly  set  against  the  wearing  of  wings  and 
feathers — that  long-lingering  relic  of  barbaric  adorn- 
ment— the  poor  jay  may  have  more  chance  in  the 
struggle  for  existence. 


Outlaws.  165 

Bad  as  is  the  character  of  the  corvidce,  there  can  be 
little  doubt  that  their  services  in  destroying  mice, 
grubs,  and  beetles,  for  more  than  half  the  year  at 
least,  far  outweigh  the  harm  they  do. 

'  Even  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the  crow, 
Renders  good  service  as  your  man-at-arms, 
Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 
And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail.' 

But  they  have,  one  and  all  of  them,  a  black  mark 
set  down  against  their  names  in  the  memory  of  the 
farmer.  The  magpie  is  shot  for  plundering  the  hen- 
roost; the  jay  pays  with  his  life  the  penalty  of  his 
taste  for  peas ;  the  crow  dies  without  mercy  as  the  foe 
of  leverets  and  weakly  lambs ;  even  the  rook  is 
suspended  in  terrorem  over  the  corn  he  laboured  so 
hard  to  save  ;  while  the  jackdaw,  convicted  of  nothing 
particular,  gets  his  death  as  an  aider  and  abettor  of 
his  inky  relations. 


SOME    BIRD    MYTHS. 

"THE  first  keen  touch  of  winter  leads  to  our  doors 
the  fearless  and  familiar  robin.  His  appearance 
is  so  consonant  with  our  ideas  of  Christmas  that  we 
regard  him  as  a  natural  feature  in  the  leafless  landscape 
— a  sort  of  recognised  property  in  the  winter  scenery 
of  poet  and  of  painter.  We  think  of  him  too  as  a 
bold-hearted  bird,  who  will  face  the  cold  blast  and  the 
bitter  snowfall ;  a  faithful  vassal  who  stands  by  us 
when  less  constant  friends  depart.  This  part  of  his 
character,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  somewhat  over- 
drawn ;  for  he  too  is  a  migrant  and  a  rover  after  all. 

As  the  cold  grows  sharper  and  the  food  supply  con- 
sequently shorter,  crowds  of  redbreasts  cross  the  sea, 
and  some  of  them  probably  go  as  far  even  as  the  oases 
of  the  great  Sahara.  Those  individuals,  who,  from 
previous  experience,  rely  on  the  provision  made  for 
them  on  friendly  doorsteps  and  window-sills  may  stay 
with  us  ;  and  many  interesting  instances  are  recorded 
of 'redbreasts  who  have  boldly  quartered  themselves 
for  the  winter  in  dwelling-houses,  and  have  even  taken 
their  meals  with  the  family. 


Some  Bird  Myths.  167 

For  those  who  thus  remain  there  is  in  the  popular 
mind  an  idea  of  sacredness  which  protects  them,  not 
only  from  the  rustic  fowling-piece,  but  mostly  even 
from  the  stone  that  startles  the  house-sparrow  into 
voluble  profanity. 

The  reason  for  this  protection  and  encouragement 
is  obvious.  Old  myths  and  half-forgotten  legends  are 
indeed  quoted  to  account  for  it ;  but  these  are  rather 
to  be  considered  as  a  result  than  as  a  cause.  It  seems 
much  more  probable  that  the  robin's  claim  to  indul- 
gence lies  rather  in  the  attraction  of  its  pretty  and 
confiding  ways.  Its  'sprightly  bearing,  its  red  breast, 
its  bright  black  eye,  its  confident  air,  and  the  knowing 
turn  of  its  head  win  for  it  more  favour  than  any  ancient 
myth  or  mouldering  tradition. 

Nor  is  it  likely  that  any  belief,  conscious  or  other- 
wise, in  the  story  of  the  '  Babes  in  the  Wood,'  in- 
fluences the  English  peasant  in  his  dealings  with  the 
robin.  That  famous  ballad  appeared,  according  to 
Percy,  in  the  first  year  of  the  seventeenth  century ; 
but  a  similar  idea  is  found  in  the  '  Cornucopia,'  a 
work  of  some  years  earlier,  where  it  is  stated  as  a 
well-known  fact  that  the  redbreast  was  in  the  habit  of 
covering  with  moss  the  bodies  of  the  dead.  Again, 
Webster  writes,  in  1638  : 

'  Call  for  the  robin  redbreast  and  the  wren  ; 
Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover, 
And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 
The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 


168  By  Leafy  Ways. 

Two  distinct  legends  account  for  the  colour  of  its 
breast.  One  is  associated  with  Christ's  Crown  of 
Thorns.  Another  story  is  that  the  robin  scorched  its 
breast  in  bringing  fire  down  from  heaven  to  rekindle 
the  cold  hearths  of  mankind.  One  legend,  embodied 
in  Whittier's  beautiful  verses,  tells  us  that  the  robin 
burnt  its  tender  little  bosom  while  carrying  drops  of 
water  in  its  beak  to  relieve  the  anguish  of  the  souls  of 
the  lost. 

It  is  said  that  the  wren,  associated  in  myth  and 
rhyme  with  the  robin,  is  still  in  some  places  looked 
upon  as  its  mate.  The  reason  for  this  strange  idea 
lies  perhaps  in  the  similar  friendly  way  of  the  two 
birds.  Both  constantly  haunt  the  abodes  of  man. 
The  songs  of  both,  from  wintry  dawn  to  sunset,  enliven 
the  dark  days  when  no  other  minstrel  finds  a  stave  to 
sing.  Their  easily  recognised  figures  are  familiar  to 
us  from  childhood ;  their  very  names  are  household 
words. 

Some  writers — as  early  as  Aristotle— describe  the 
wren  as  the  king  of  birds,  and  various  accounts  are 
found  in  folk-lore  of  the  contest  which  gave  him  this 
dignity. 

The  feathered  tribes,  assembled  in  solemn  conclave 
to  elect  a  king,  agreed  to  honour  as  their  lord,  that 
one  of  their  number  who  should  fly  the  highest.  The 
eagle  easily  distanced  all  comers,  and  when  even  his 
great  wings  were  weary,  and  he  could  fly  no  higher, 
he  prepared  to  claim  the  crown.  Thereupon  a  wren, 


Some  Bird  Myths.  169 

which  had  hidden  itself  away  among  the  feathers  of 
its  mighty  rival,  left  its  retreat  and  soared  a  few  feet 
further  into  the  air,  and  by  this  trick  obtained  the 
royal  title. 

It  is  doubtful,  however,  whether  the  common  brown 
bird  is  meant,  or  the  gold-crest  —  the  smallest  of 
British,  and,  indeed,  of  European  birds,  which  wears 
a  visible  symbol  of  sovereignty — a  dash  of  gold — upon 
its  tiny  head. 

A  curious  custom  once  prevailed  in  parts  of  France 
and  in  several  places  in  the  British  islands,  and  is  said 
to  be  not  yet  entirely  extinct,  by  which  wrens  were 
hunted  every  year  on  Christmas  Day,  and,  on  the  day 
following,  the  lifeless  bodies  of  the  little  birds  were 
carried  through  the  streets  in  solemn  procession  by 
boys,  who  went  from  house  to  house  asking  for  money 
and  singing : 

'  The  wren,  the  wren,  the  king  of  all  birds, 
St.  Stephen's  Day  was  caught  in  the  furze  ; 
We  hunted  him  up,  we  hunted  him  down, 
We  hunted  him  all  about  the  town. 
Although  he  is  little,  his  family  great, 
I  pray  you,  good  people,  give  us  a  treat ' 

— with  other  verses  varying  in  number  and  substance 
in  different  districts.  It  is  said  in  explanation  of  this 
custom  that  a  wren  flying  in  the  face  of  St.  Stephen's 
gaoler  awoke  him  as  the  protomartyr  was  in  the  act  of 
escaping. 

The  wren  probably  gets  no  credit  from  the  Catholic 


170  By  Leafy  Ways. 

population,  from  the  story  that  the  sleeping  sentries  of 
King  William's  army  were  roused,  and  the  Orange 
army  saved  from  destruction,  by  the  noise  which  a 
party  of  these  little  birds  made  in  pecking  crumbs 
from  a  Protestant  drum-head. 

Like  the  robin,  the  wren  is  said  to  have  injured 
itself  in  a  public  spirited  attempt  to  bring  fire  from 
heaven.  Its  feathers  having  been  all  burnt  off,  the 
other  birds  lent  it  some  of  theirs,  with  the  single  ex- 
ception of  the  owl,  who  for  its  selfish  and  ungrateful 
conduct  was  banished  from  society,  and  has  ever  since 
been  obliged  to  wait  till  nightfall  before  he  can  stir 
abroad. 

Owls  have  never  been  popular  birds.  The  gloomy 
and  retiring  habits  of  most  species,  and  the  blood- 
curdling screech  of  some  of  them,  have  earned  for  the 
whole  tribe  an  evil  reputation.  We  read  in  Pliny  that, 
on  two  occasions,  a  large  owl  having  made  its  appear- 
ance in  the  streets  of  Rome,  a  solemn  ceremony  was 
performed  by  the  whole  city  to  avert  the  catastrophe 
foreshadowed  by  visits  from  such  awful  -  looking 
monsters. 

Not  a  few  bird-myths  are  connected  with  death  or 
ill-fortune.  Even  in  this  matter-of-fact  age  there  are 
probably  many  places  where  all  hope  of  a  sick  man's 
recovery  would  be  given  up  if  a  crow,  or  even  a  rook 
or  a  jackdaw,  flew  over  the  dwelling.  In  the  Orkneys 
the  same  belief  attaches  to  the  ring-ouzel,  and  there 
are  districts  in  England  where  the  sudden  appearance 


Some  Bird  Myths.  171 

of  a  white  pigeon  is  thought  to  herald  the  approach  of 
death. 

There  are  not  a  few  even  of  educated  persons  who, 
mindful  of  the  old  rhymes,  would  feel  more  relieved 
on  seeing  a  second  magpie  cross  their  path.  The 
couplet : 

'  One  for  sorrow,  two  for  mirth, 
Three  for  a  wedding,  four  for  a  birth,' 

is  familiar  to  all ;  but  a  variety  of  consequences  is 
predicted  from  seeing  five  or  six,  and  one  version  even 
goes  up  to  ten  : 

'  Five  for  silver,  six  for  gold, 
Seven  for  a  secret  not  to  be  told, 
Eight  for  heaven,  nine  for  hell, 
And  ten  for  the  devil's  ain  sell.' 

In  other  days  at  least,  and  perhaps  the  belief  may  still 
linger  here  and  there,  the  storm-tossed  sailor  felt  hope 
die  out  within  him  as  he  watched,  flitting  among  the 
white  wave-crests  of  the  angry  sea,  the  dark  figure  of 
the  stormy  petrel.  For  he  saw  in  this  little  bird — 
which  takes  its  name  from  Peter's  attempt  to  walk  on 
the  water — a  phantom  from  the  nether  world.  Ac- 
cording to  one  legend,  it  was  the  restless  ghost  of 
some  dead-and-gone  sea-captain,  condemned  for  his 
cruelty  to  wander  thus  for  ever,  like  Vanderdecken, 
over  the  waste  of  waters;  or,  more  ominous  still,  the 
soul  of  a  d  owned  mariner  wailing  over  his  unconse- 
crated  grave. 

In  the  '  Metamorphoses '  we  are  familiar  with  many 


172  By  Leafy  Ways. 

instances  in  which  mortals  were,  according  to  the  poet, 
transformed  into  birds.  A  myth  is  said  to  be  still 
prevalent  in  Denmark  to  the  effect  that  lapwings 
represent  the  spirits  of  departed  old  maids,  while 
green  sandpipers  are  the  deceased  bachelors.  These 
birds  haunt  the  same  marshy  places,  and  when  the 
lapwings,  sailing  slowly  through  the  air,  wail  in 
mournful  strains, 

'  O  why  wouldn't  you  ?     O  why  wouldn't  you  7 

the  sandpipers  in  clear  and  ringing  tones  make 
answer : 

'  Because  we  dared  not,  because  we  dared  not,' 

followed  by  a  chorus  of  mocking  laughter  from  the 
unrepentant  crew. 

In  some  of  the  mining  districts  of  the  North  of 
England  the  cry  of  the  golden  plover  is  dreaded  as  a 
portent  of  coming  evil.  The  colliers  say  that  the 
voices  of  these  birds — the  wandering  spirits  of  the 
Jews  who  assisted  at  the  Crucifixion — are  always 
heard  before  disastrous  explosions  in  the  pits ;  and 
the  men  will  even  refuse  to  descend  to  their  work 
when  they  have  heard,  floating  down  through  the 
darkness,  the  mournful  whistling  of  a  troop  of 
plovers. 

A  brighter  myth  is  linked  with  the  humming-bird. 
In  the  Aztec  mythology  humming-birds  were  the  souls 
of  heroes  who,  having  died  in  defence  of  the  gods, 
were  conducted  into  the  kingdom  of  the  Sun,  and 


Some  Bird  Myths.  173 

wore,  by  command  of  that  deity,  a  dress  worthy  of 
their  fair  renown. 

To  even  the  soberest  of  mortals  '  Halcyon  Days ' 
will  suggest  bygone  seasons  of  calm  and  quiet ;  hours 
of  peace  and  sunlit  happiness;  will  carry  the  memory 
back  perchance  to  some  sweet  river  idyll : 

' ....  in  some  forgotten  June 
When  they  both  were  young  together  ; 
Heart  of  youth  and  summer  weather 
Making  all  their  holiday,' 

and  yet  perhaps  forget — if  he  ever  heard  of  it — that 
strange  myth  that  Pliny  wrote  of,  and  that  Montaigne 
embellished  with  touches  of  his  own,  how  the  king- 
fisher— the  Halcyon  of  Ovid's  story — builds  her  nest 
in  the  depth  of  winter ;  and  how  '  the  very  seas  .... 
know  well  when  they  sit  and  breed.  And  the  time 
whiles  they  are  broodie  is  called  halcyon  daies;  for 
during  that  season  the  sea  is  calm  and  navigable, 
especially  on  the  coast  of  Sicilie.' 

We  smile  at  the  credulity  of  an  age  which  could 
believe  in  the  legend.  We  ourselves  have  no  faith  in 
the  old  superstition  ;  but  many  a  doubtful  voyager 
'  On  life's  dim  unsounded  sea '  would  echo  the  wish 
breathed  in  the  tender  lines  of  the  quaint  old  poet : 

'  Blow,  but  gently  blow,  faire  winde 

From  the  forsaken  shore  ; 
And  be  as  to  the  halcyon,  kinde, 
Till  we  have  ferried  o'er.' 


WHEN    WOODS    ARE    BARE. 


TN  these  dull  December  days  the 
woodlands  wear  their  least  attrac- 
tive dress.  Brown  and  faded  leaves  linger  late  upon, 
the  larches ;  a  few  fiery  sprays  of  bramble  cling  about 
the  tangled  thickets  ;  festoons  of  bryony,  shorn  of  their 


When  Woods  are  Bare.  175 

dark  foliage,  wander  here  and  there  among  the  bushes, 
and  hang  their  chains  of  rubies  in  the  wintry  sun.  But 
the  red  tresses  of  the  beech  lie  thick  on  all  the  slopes 
with  the  glow  of  a  rich  sunset;  the  last  leaves  of 
the  oak  have  floated  gently  down  in  drops  of  golden 
rain  ;  the  spoils  of  elm  and  sycamore,  loosened  by  the 
frost  and  scattered  by  the  storm,  are  spread  over  the 
earth  like  the  pall  of  some  barbaric  chieftain. 

Among  the  leafless  trees  the  children  of  the  forest, 
who  all  the  summer  long  found  a  safe  asylum  in  the 
greenwood,  whose  very  presence  was  hardly  noticed  in 
the  quiet  autumn  days,  now  make  themselves  plain 
enough  to  the  least  observant  of  wayfarers. 

There  is  a  stir  of  wings  in  all  the  tree-tops.  The 
thickets  are  haunted  by  troops  of  eager  and  industrious 
foragers.  On  the  ground  is  the  rustle  of  innumerable 
tiny  feet  turning  over  in  quest  of  insects  the  brown 
and  yellow  leaves. 

One  of  the  plainest  to  be  seen  of  all  the  company  is 
the  jay.  In  the  spring-time  he  is  shy  and  quiet,  hiding 
himself  far  aloof  in  the  green  depths  of  copse  or 
underwood,  or  among  the  shadows  of  an  unfrequented 
orchard.  His  voice  is  rarely  heard.  He  flits  silently 
away  at  the  approach  of  danger,  and  his  bright  wings 
are  seldom  seen  beyond  the  limits  of  his  cover. 

In  the  late  summer,  when  household  cares  are  over, 
he  and  his  family  leave  the  shelter  of  the  woods  and 
join  the  clans  in  their  raids  upon  the  ripening  grain. 
In  the  winter  these  parties  are  by  voice  and  dress 


176  By  Leafy  Ways. 

quite  a  feature  of  the  wood.  The  white  tail-coverts  of 
the  jay,  and  the  dark  plumage  of  his  wings  and  tail, 
make  him  a  striking  object  even  at  a  distance  as  he 
flits  in  his  lively  way  from  tree  to  tree.  Seen  near  at 
hand,  the  colours  of  his  gay  attire  proclaim  him  what 
he  is,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  our  native  birds. 

There  is  no  idea  now  of  vanishing  in  silence.  One 
of  the  party,  suspicious  of  danger,  sounds  a  note  of 
alarm.  The  harsh  scream  is  taken  up  by  each  in 
turn  until  the  whole  glade  is  in  a  tumult.  Then  the 
noisy  crew  retire  deeper  into  their  sylvan  haunt 
through  the  thick  undergrowth  of  ash  saplings  which 
rise  like  a  mist  among  the  trees. 

Less  frequently  noticed,  because  less  common  and 
much  shyer  and  quieter  than  the  jay,  our  three  resident 
woodpeckers  are  much  more  easily  seen  now  among 
the  leafless  branches. 

The  lesser  spotted  species  is  perhaps  not  so  rare  as 
it  is  often  thought  to  be.  Gould  even  said  that  it 
might  be  found  in  almost  any  large  group  of  elms. 
But  from  its  habit  of  frequenting  the  topmost  boughs 
it  is  probably  often  passed  by  unnoticed. 

The  green  woodpecker,  although  a  recognised  wood- 
lander,  is  more  partial  to  scattered  timber  than  to  the 
depths  of  the  forest.  His  home  lies  rather  among  the 
grey  wilderness  of  a  West-country  orchard,  in  the  tall 
elms  that  cluster  in  a  corner  of  the  meadow,  or  the 
broad-leaved  chestnuts  of  the  solitary  copse. 

Follow  the  footpath  that  leads  past  the  church  and 


When  Woods  are  Bare.  177 

winds  along  in  the  shadow  of  the  hill.  These  bare 
rough  banks  are  thick  in  spring-time  with  forests  of 
pale  primroses,  and  the  fresh  green  leaves  of  the  sorrel. 
On  the  shoulder  of  the  hill  up  yonder  is  a  clump  of 
feathery  larches,  among  whose  green  spring  shadows 
the  shy  ringdove  weaves  her  careless  nest.  Farther 
on  along  the  hillside  rise  the  rugged  outlines  of  the 
grey  limestone  ramparts,  in  whose  recesses  rockdoves 
breed,  and  among  whose  ancient  yew-trees  the  bold 
kestrel  makes  her  home. 

High  up  in  the  west,  their  great  wings  dark  against 
the  saffron  of  the  wintry  sky,  a  party  of  herons  drift 
slowly  out  to  fish  among  the  moorland  ditches. 

All  at  once,  from  the  dim  shadows  of  the  wood 
yonder,  where  brown  waves  of  bracken  cluster  round 
the  roots  of  stalwart  beeches,  and  bright  fungi  hang 
like  coloured  lamps  about  the  moss-grown  tree  stumps, 
comes  the  cry  of  a  woodpecker.  The  next  moment 
he  sweeps  down  from  his  cover  to  the  tall  sycamore 
that  stands  like  an  outpost  on  the  edge  of  the  wood. 
Scattered  gleams  of  sunlight  flicker  on  the  golden  stem, 
as  the  branches  sway  gently  in  the  wind, 

As  a  sylph  of  the  air  had  traced  them  there, 
And  then  dashed  them  away  with  her  wing. 

The  bird  alights  half-way  up  the  tree,  his  figure  sharply 
outlined  on  the  rare  December  blue.  Clinging  with 
powerful  claws  to  the  trunk  and  supporting  himself 
with  the  stiff  feathers  of  his  tail,  he  peers  into  the 

12 


178  By  Leafy  Ways. 

chinks  in  search  of  insects  ;  or,  swaying  his  whole 
body  to  add  force  to  the  blow,  he  splits  away  the  bark 
with  his  strong  beak,  or  digs  deep  into  the  soft  wood 
where  it  is  beginning  to  decay.  The  sunshine  glows 
on  the  gold  and  green  of  his  forester's  livery,  and 
touches  with  an  added  fire  the  vivid  crimson  of  his 
crest.  Now  he  looks  up  to  answer  the  hail  of  some 
brother  of  the  craft, 

And  his  jovial  shout  peals  gaily  out, 
Like  a  stave  of  a  drinking  song. 

There  is  a  stir  of  footsteps  on  the  leaves.  He  stops 
his  work  and  waits  as  still  as  if  carved  in  wood.  A 
dead  stick  snaps  under  an  unwary  footstep.  In  a 
moment  the  bird  glides  behind  the  trunk,  and  climb- 
ing higher  up,  watches  from  behind  a  branch  the 
movements  of  the  intruder.  The  steps  draw  nearer. 
The  woodpecker  sweeps  silently  away  from  the  other 
side  of  the  tree,  skirts  the  long,  tangled  hedgerow,  and 
shows  for  a  moment  like  a  gleam  of  gold  ere  he 
vanishes  among1  the  grey  shadows  of  his  favourite 
orchard.  There  is  a  hole  in  the  stem  of  the  old 
pollard  ash  in  the  hedge  yonder  that  may  have  been 
his  nest. 

Many  birds  make  their  homes  in  holes  in  trees  ;  but 
the  green  woodpecker  cuts  his  out  for  himself,  gener- 
ally in  the  very  heart  of  a  living  tree.  He  does,  it  is 
true,  make  plenty  of  shallow,  irregular  cuttings  in 
rotten  wood,  in  search  of  the  grubs  and  beetles  that 


When  Woods  are  Bare.  179 

burrow  in  the  soft  material ;  but  the  excavation  in- 
tended for  a  residence  is  cut  round  and  true  at  the 
opening,  and  sometimes  descends  two  feet  into  the 
solid  timber.  Nest,  in  the  ordinary  sense,  thers  is 
none.  The  exquisite  ivory  eggs  are  laid  on  a  bed  of 
chips  at  the  bottom  of  the  hole. 

Exceptionally  powerful  muscles  are  provided  for  the 
beak  which  has  such  work  to  do,  and  it  has  been 
observed  that  when  the  woodpecker  strikes  a  blow  its 
eyelids  close  at  the  same  moment. 

This  curious  sympathetic  action,  which  seems  to 
have  escaped  the  notice  of  writers  on  ornithology,  is 
evidently  to  protect  the  eyes  from  flying  chips. 

The  bird  is  extremely  shy ;  it  is  not  easy  to  watch 
the  operation  of  nest-making.  It  would  be  interest- 
ing to  clear  up  the  vexed  question  whether  the  chips 
are,  or  are  not,  removed  from  the  ground  under  the 
hole  so  as  to  avoid  discovery.  Professor  Newton 
states  that  he  has  never  known  it  done;  but  many 
occupied  nests  have  been  found  from  which  all 
traces  of  the  work  had,  from  some  cause  or  other, 
disappeared.  The  birds,  in  such  cases,  may  have 
been  prompted  by  painful  experience  or  family 
tradition. 

Few  birds  use  their  nests  for  shelter  after  the  young 
have  flown ;  but  woodpeckers  appear  to  sleep  in  their 
holes  as  a  regular  thing,  and  in  some  instances  they 
return  to  the  same  tree  to  breed  year  after  year.  One 
case  is  on  record  in  which  a  pair  of  these  birds,  or 

12 — 2 


i8o  By  Leafy  Ways. 

their  descendants,  tenanted  the  same  hole  for  thirty 
years  in  succession. 

Another  hole-builder,  but  in  a  different  style,  is  the 
nut-hatch.  He  selects  a  hollow  ready-made,  and  if 
the  entrance  is  too  large  for  his  fancy  he  reduces  its 
size  by  plastering  it  up  with  mud. 

Not,  however,  like  the  hornbill  Mr.  Wallace  writes 
of,  who  imprisons  his  mate  in  her  nest  with  a  rampart 
of  mud ;  feeding  her  indeed,  but  keeping  her  thus  in 
custody  until  her  one  chick  is  safely  fledged.  What 
experiences  of  heartless  desertion  there  must  have 
been  to  have  brought  matters  to  such  a  pass  as 
this! 

The  nut-hatch  is  even  more  of  an  acrobat  than  the 
woodpecker,  for  he  seems  to  run  down  a  tree  with 
greater  ease  than  up  it ;  and  when  he  alights  on  a 
branch  at  some  height  above  his  nest  he  positively 
appears  to  trickle  into  his  hole. 

He  is  a  pretty  bird,  both  in  his  dress  and  his 
manners  ;  and  when  in  the  winter,  emboldened  by  the 
scarcity  of  food,  he  even  joins  the  sparrows  who  flock 
round  the  door  for  crumbs — not  unfrequently  driving 
all  other  birds  away — or,  clinging  in  graceful  attitudes 
to  the  dark  foliage,  he  plunders  the  yew-tree  of  its 
brilliant  fruit,  his  charming  ways  render  him  an  ever- 
welcome  visitor. 

But  of  all  the  dwellers  in  the  wood  by  far  the  most 
numerous  and  most  easily  seen  are  the  titmice.  A 
party  of  long-tailed  tits,  as  many  as  thirty  strong,  fly 


When  Woods  are  Bare.  181 

from  bush  to  bush  across  the  underwood.  Their 
skirmishers  search  among  the  few  last  leaves  that 
linger  in  the  tree-tops ;  they  investigate  every  crevice 
of  the  rustling  ground.  They  keep  up  a  continual 
chatter  as  they  go ;  their  fluffy  little  round  bodies  and 
strangely  long  tails  singling  them  out  plainly  enough 
from  the  rest  of  the  busy  company.  They  are  every- 
where at  once.  The  wood  is  alive  with  them.  And 
all  the  while  there  swing  from  swaying  boughs  or 
rocking  pine-tops  the  other  members  of  the  clan — the 
great  tit,  with  his  bold  and  brilliant  colouring;  the 
blue  tit,  with  his  smart  blue  bonnet;  the  marsh  tit, 
and  the  coal  tit,  with  their  neat  and  quiet  tints. 

They  are  a  merry  crew,  gifted  with  blithe  and 
musical  voices.  And  among  them  all  the  great  tit,  in 
particular,  is  the  lyric  poet  of  the  spring.  In  the  early 
days  of  January  his  clear  sonorous  call  rises  above  the 
shrill  treble  of  the  robin,  and  the  stammering  pipe  of 
the  yet  unpractised  song-thrush.  And  in  the  sweet 
sunshine  of  happy  April  days  his  voice  chimes  in  like 
the  lilt  of  a  swinging  chorus,  when,  with  music  from  a 
hundred  throats, 

The  quivering  air  thrills  everywhere 
One  rippling  sea  of  song. 


THE    BIRD'S-EYE    VIEW. 


A  FAMILIAR  figure  on  the  wintry  sky  of  these 
dark  December  days  is  the  roving  kestrel,  so 
plain  to  see  now  in  the  leafless  landscape.  Now  he 
drifts  across  the  moor ;  now  he  pauses  to  hover  on 
quick-beating  wings  ;  now  he  sinks  downward  through 
the  frosty  air  to  rest  for  a  brief  space  upon  the  ground. 

A  flock  of  redwings  scattered  over  the  meadow- 
cower  among  the  grass  in  terror  as  the  keen  wings 
sweep  overhead,  or  with  shrill  notes  of  alarm  hurry  to 
the  shelter  of  the  nearest  hedgerow.  A  troop  of  lap- 
wings too,  gathered  in  a  motley  crowd  along  the  edge 
of  the  pool  that  lies  in  the  long  hollow  of  the  pasture, 
catch  sight  of  the  flying  figure,  and  rise  hastily  with 
anxious  cries  as  the  dreaded  wings  draw  near. 

But  the  hawk  has  no  eyes  for  them.  He  is  on  the 
watch  for  humbler  booty,  and  the  thrush  and  the  lap- 
wing have  little  to  fear  from  his  sharp  bill,  unless  he 
is  driven  by  the  scarcity  of  his  usual  simple  fare  to  fly 
at  higher  game. 


The  Bird's-Eye  View.  183 

A  party  of  linnets,  busy  in  a  clump  of  thistles,  rise 
into  the  air  with  a  musical  chorus,  and,  instead  of 
fleeing  for  shelter,  give  chase  to  the  unoffending  hawk. 
Now,  they  gain  on  his  deliberate  flight,  and  swoop 
down  so  as  almost  to  brush  him  with  their  wings ;  now, 
they  scatter  right  and  left  at  some  movement  they 
think  may  mean  pursuit.  They  follow  him  a  field  or 
two,  and  then  retire,  exulting  in  what  they  seem  to 
regard  as  his  discomfiture. 

A  kestrel  rarely  turns  when  thus  pursued,  but  a 
sparrow-hawk  is  apt  to  take  the  thing  less  calmly,  and 
will  sometimes  avenge  his  injuries  in  the  blood  even 
of  a  brace  of  his  impudent  assailants.  A  cuckoo  is 
often  mobbed  in  a  similar  manner ;  and  a  belated  owl 
venturing  out  in  daylight  is  pursued  by  half  the  birds 
of  the  parish. 

As  we  watch  the  skilful  evolutions  of  the  kestrel, 
his  pause,  his  hover,  and  his  swift  descent,  we  are 
tempted  to  wonder  how  so  small  an  object  as  a  mouse 
or  a  beetle  can  be  seen  from  such  a  height  above  the 
ground.  The  wonder  grows  in  the  case  of  larger  birds 
of  prey — vultures  especially,  who  from  a  height  perhaps 
of  thousands  of  feet  descry  the  wounded  deer  or  dying 
sheep  when  they  themselves  are  far  beyond  our  ken. 

One  of  the  commonest  experiences  of  a  desert 
march  is  the  sudden  appearance  of  vultures  when 
some  unfortunate  beast,  exhausted  by  the  journey  on 
the  burning  sand,  has  fallen  out  of  the  line  and  been 
left  to  perish  by  the  way. 


184  By  Leafy  Ways. 

It  is  a  treeless  waste ;  no  mountains  even,  except  as 
a  dim  line  on  the  horizon  ;  but  hardly  has  the  dying 
beast  sunk  down,  when  from  every  side,  coming  out  of 
the  clear  blue  heaven,  are  seen  those  tiny  specks  that 
dilating  as  they  fly,  grow  into  great  evil-looking  vul- 
tures swiftly  descending  to  the  feast ;  while  the  sur- 
vivors, knowing  well  the  ominous  rush  of  those  terrible 
wings,  press  on  with  eager  haste,  throwing  fearful 
glances  back,  and  wondering  if  the  morrow's  dawn 
will  shine  upon  their  whitened  bones — one  more  link 
in  that  fatal  chain  of  skeletons  that  marks  the  way 
across  the  waste. 

It  was  long  supposed  that  the  marvellous  power  of 
the  vulture  in  discovering  a  dead  body  lay  in  its  sense 
of  smell.  A  writer  of  the  thirteenth  century,  in  speak- 
ing of  the  faculties  of  animals,  gravely  asserts  that  a 
vulture  can  smell  a  carcase  at  a  distance  of  500  miles. 
Others,  bolder  still,  declared  it  was  no  matter  even  if 
the  sea  should  intervene. 

The  experiments  of  Darwin,  Audubon,  and  others, 
however,  have  shown  that  birds  depend  much  more 
on  sight  than  smell,  if  indeed  the  latter  faculty  plays 
any  appreciable  part  at  all.  Captive  vultures  have 
been  known  even  to  stand  upon  the  canvas  which 
concealed  a  piece  of  putrid  meat,  without  discovering 
what  lay  beneath  it  until  the  covering  was  purposely 
torn. 

The  condor — the  great  vulture  of  the  Andes — has 
been  known  to  fly  at  a  height  of  15,000  feet.  Perhaps 


The  Bird's-Eye  View.  185 

even  at  2,000  feet  a  soaring  bird  would  be  unnoticed 
by,  and  perhaps  invisible  to,  the  traveller,  while  it  is 
quite  likely  that  a  number  of  vultures  would  remain  at 
that  height,  at  wide  intervals  no  doubt,  forming  a 
chain  of  observation  extending  far  over  the  country. 
One  bird  swoops  downward.  The  movement  is  fol- 
lowed by  others  in  their  turn,  until  the  news  of  plunder 
has  been  spread  perhaps  for  fifty  miles. 

Most  of  the  higher  orders  of  animals,  no  doubt, 
possess  in  a  state  of  nature  far-reaching  powers  of 
sight.  The  hunter  who  has  followed  the  chamois 
among  its  native  mountains  knows  well  the  keenness 
of  its  vision.  But  it  is  probable  that  birds  excel  all 
other  creatures  in  this  as  in  the  power  of  flight. 

The  epithet  '  lynx-eyed '  is  based  upon  a  misconcep- 
tion. The  word  does  not  really  refer  to  the  beast  at 
all,  but  to  Lynceus,  the  Argonaut,  the  hero  of  the 
Calydonian  Hunt,  whose  power  of  finding  treasure  in 
the  bowels  of  the  earth  first  brought  the  word  into 
existence. 

Even  the  smaller  birds  have  vision  far  before  our 
feeble  powers.  If  we  watch  a  flock  of  starlings  picking 
up  without  a  moment's  pause  a  harvest  from  the 
meadow,  and  then,  driving  them  away,  examine  the 
spot  which  they  found  so  productive,  we  shall  in  all 
probability  see  nothing  but  the  grass  of  the  field 
where  the  industrious  and  keen-eyed  birds  were  glean- 
ing a  sufficient  feast  of  flies,  and  grubs,  and  centipedes, 
too  small  for  the  casual  observer  to  discover. 


186  By  Leafy  Ways. 

The  eyes  of  birds  when  compared  with  those  of 
other  animals  present  some  marked  and  palpable  dif- 
ferences. They  are  much  more  variously  coloured  ; 
the  iris  is  of  all  hues,  from  white  to  .black.  It  may  be 
red  or  blue,  brown  or  yellow.  The  eye  is  large  in 
proportion  to  the  head,  especially  in  the  case  of  late- 
flying  birds  who  need  to  make  the  most  of  the  dim 
light  of  evening. 

Among  several  singular  points  of  internal  structure 
the  most  remarkable  is  the  presence  of  a  jointed  ring 
of  bone,  which  lies  in  front  of  the  eyeball,  round  the 
iris.  It  consists  of  a  number  of  segments  or  plates 
firmly  united  together,  but  still  admitting  of  some 
amount  of  movement  at  the  will  of  the  bird,  who  by 
this  means  is  supposed  to  be  able  to  alter  the  shape  of 
the  crystalline  lens,  which  lies  behind  the  ring,  and 
thus  to  vary  the  focus  of  its  eyes. 

Were  the  eyes  of  the  kestrel  constructed  like  our 
own,  we  might  well  expect  that  it  would  lose  sight  of 
so'  small  an  object  as  a  mouse  in  its  descent.  We 
find  that  birds  of  prey,  have  large  eyes,  with  these 
bony  rings  particularly  broad  and  strong ;  and  by  this 
arrangement  can  keep  their  prey  in  view.  The  swift, 
again,  whose  keen  wings  carry  it  through  the  air  at  the 
rate  of  some  miles  in  a  minute,  has  a  similar  provision, 
both  as  regards  the  size  of  its  eyes  and  the  development 
of  its  sclerotic  plates. 

A  curious  modification  is  seen  in  the  owls,  whose 
eyes  are  encased  in  rings,  or  rather  tubes,  each  con- 


The  Bird's-Eye  View.  187 

sisting  of  fifteen  separate  pieces  of  bone,  and  strongly 
resembling  the  eyeglass  used  by  a  working  watch- 
maker. 

The  development  of  this  focussing  apparatus  is 
equally  marked  in  birds  that  are  in  the  habit  of  diving 
in  pursuit  of  fish. 

Watch  the  white  gannet  as  he  sails  on  long  keen 
wings  over  the  restless  sea.  He  has  caught  sight  of  a 
fish.  Pausing  suddenly,  he  hovers  like  a  hawk,  though 
his  narrow,  pointed  tail  seems  ill  adapted  to  steady 
him  in  the  air.  Now  falling  swiftly — perhaps  a  hundred 
feet — the  gannet  disappears  in  a  cloud  of  spray.  It 
usually  stays  under  but  four  or  five  seconds,  but  is 
capable  of  much  longer  immersion,  and  indeed  is 
provided  with  space  for  the  storage  of  air — perhaps 
for  breathing  purposes — three  times  as  great  as  that  in 
the  human  lungs. 

The  better  to  follow  its  prey  under  water,  the  gannet 
has  very  large  eyes,  and  its  sclerotic  rings,  composed 
of  twelve  plates  of  bone,  are  especially  broad  and 
thick. 

Those  who  have  chased  in  vain  the  divers  that  in 
summer  are  seen  upon  the  Broads  of  Norfolk  will 
have  had  ample  evidence  of  the  keen  vision  of  a 
diving  bird. 

It  is  on  '  The  Queen  of  the  Broads '  perhaps  that 
the  yachtsman,  climbing  out  of  his  berth  at  daybreak, 
sees  the  graceful  figure  of  some  large  bird,  very  low  in 
the  water,  drifting  along  among  the  coots  and  moor- 


iSS  By  Leafy  Ways. 

hens  that  have  come  out  from  their  covert  in  the 
reeds.  It  dives  now  and  then,  coming  up  with  a  fish 
in  its  beak. 

You  cast  off  the  dingy  and  pull  gently  towards  the 
bird.  He  takes  no  notice  at  first,  perhaps ;  but  before 
long  you  observe  that  he  comes  up  farther  away  after 
each  dive,  and  as  you  quicken  your  stroke  he  hurries 
too,  paddling  swiftly  away,  and  again  diving  out  of 
sight.  You  have  put  on  a  hard  spurt  while  he  was 
down,  and  he  comes  up  within  range.  There  is  a 
flash  and  a  sharp  report;  you  have  surely  got  him 
now.  But  there  is  nothing  there  but  the  widening 
rings  that  tell  how  the  bird,  warned  by  the  flash,  was 
safe  beneath  the  surface  ere  the  shower  of  shot  swept 
harmless  over  his  head. 


THE   WINTRY   SHORE. 


A  MONO  the  many  sea-fowl  which  are  seen  at 
^  various  times  about  the  broad  river  mouths,  on 
the  yellow  sands  or  along  the  rugged  steeps  of  our 
long  and  wandering  coast  line,  there  are  not  a  few 
which  are  to  be  regarded  as  a  sort  of  floating  popula- 
tion, changing  with  the  changing  season. 

Some,  like  the  terns,  are  seen  here  only  in  the 
summer.  They  come  to  our  shores  to  breed,  and 
leave  us  again  in  the  autumn. 

Others  retire  to  inland  moors,  or  even  to  Arctic 
latitudes,  for  the  summer,  and  return  when  the  breed- 
ing season  is  past. 

As  for  the  rest,  there  are,  scattered  up  and  down 
the  coast,  a  number  of  stations  where  sea  birds  gather 
from  all  directions  at  the  pairing-time.  When  the 
young  are  hatched  these  colonies  break  up  and  the 
birds  distribute  themselves  again  round  the  islands. 

Conspicuous  at  all  seasons  among  the  gulls  that 
stand  out  like  points  of  light  along  the  cliff-ledges  is 


igo  By  Leafy  Ways. 

the  dark  figure  of  the  cormorant.  It  is  most  abundant 
on  a  rock-bound  coast,  but  there  are  few  parts  of  our 
seaboard  where  it  is  altogether  a  stranger. 

Perhaps  its  most  characteristic  position  is  some 
isolated  fragment  of  rock  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
land.  Well  out  of  range,  even  at  low  water,  its  dark 
sides  picked  out  with  tufts  of  samphire,  and  with  stains 
of  lichen  relieving  the  rich  reds  and  browns  of  the  sea- 
worn  stone,  rises  the  stern  outline  of  'The  Shag 
Rock.' 

Side  by  side  along  the  narrow  ledges  stand  the 
sombre  figures  of  these  toilers  of  the  sea ;  some  still 
in  the  browrn  livery  of  their  younger  days,  others  in 
the  velvety  black  that  marks  the  attainment  of  their 
third  season.  Now  one  leaves  the  ranks,  and  stretch- 
ing out  its  long  neck  like  a  duck  flies  heavily  along 
the  water  to  another  station. 

A  floating  buoy  or  an  old  mooring-post  by  the 
shore  makes  a  favourite  resting-place ;  and  it  is  not 
uncommon  to  find  some  particular  point  held  year 
after  year  by  the  same  bird — not  always  without  fight- 
ing for  it. 

On  the  broken  mast  of  some  ill-fated  vessel,  covered 
with  clustering  barnacles,  and  with  a  few  frayed  ropes 
still  trailing  idly  in  the  water — one  of  those  sad 
suggestions 

'  Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed, 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again,' 

a  solitary  cormorant  will  rest  for  hours,  upright  as  a 


The  Wintry  Shore.  igi 

sentinel  on  guard ;  looking  for  all  the  world  like  some 
spirit  of  evil,  meditating  mischief. 

It  is  a  dexterous  diver  in  pursuit  of  fish,  and  after 
long -continued  immersion — remaining  under  water 
sometimes  as  long  as  fifty  seconds — its  feathers  become 
so  drenched  that  it  cannot  fly.  It  will  then  stand 
erect  upon  some  favourite  station  with  its  great  wings 
spread  wide  to  dry  in  the  sun,  looking  at  once  weird 
and  gigantic  in  a  failing  light. 

A  cormorant  which  was  fired  at  while  thus  standing 
at  ease  disgorged  a  dozen  good-sized  fish  before  it 
succumbed  to  a  second  shot. 

This  habit  of  lightening  itself  for  quicker  escape 
has  probably  given  rise  to  the  strange  idea  about  the 
bird's  powers  of  rapid  digestion.  '  A  shag,'  said  a 
Cornish  fisherman,  '  is  a  very  quare  bird.  If  you 
see  one  swallow  a  fish,  and  shoot  him,  and  open 
him,  the  fish  is  gone.  A  shag,  you  see,  is  so  hot 
inside.' 

When  a  cormorant  is  fired  at,  the  whole  flock  will 
sometimes  fall  into  the  sea  as  if  shot ;  but  on  rowing 
to  the  place  to  pick  up  his  booty,  the  astonished  sports- 
man will  very  probably  see  half  a  dozen  black  heads 
just  showing  above  the  water  where  the  birds  are 
swimming  for  dear  life.  In  confinement  the  bird 
becomes  very  tame,  and  often  much  attached  to  its 
master.  Many  stories  are  told  of  the  boldness  and 
rapacity  of  such  captives.  One  attacked  a  pointer  so 
fiercely  that  the  dog  died  of  its  wounds.  Another 


192  By  Leafy  Ways. 

swallowed  the  head  and  neck  of  a  tame  duck  before 
the  unhappy  bird  was  rescued  by  a  bystander. 

A  more  expert  diver  even  than  the  cormorant  is  its 
white  relative  the  gannet  The  breeding  haunts  of 
this  bird  are  limited  to  a  few  stations,  all  of  which 
are  on  the  Scotch  coast,  except  one  on  Lundy  and 
one  in  Kerry.  The  largest  colony,  on  the  island 
called  Sula  Sgeir,  near  Lewis,  is  estimated  to  number 
300,000  birds. 

The  gannet  lives  on  fish,  and  the  quantity  of 
herrings  consumed  annually  by  the  united  efforts  of 
the  birds  on  the  five  northern  stations  exceeds  the 
entire  take  of  the  whole  fishing  fleet  of  Scotland, 
artd  is  said  to  fall  little  short  of  one  thousand 
millions. 

The  gannet  moves  south  in  the  autumn,  and  is  to 
be  seen  during  the  winter  months  along  our  southern 
shores. 

When  in  pursuit  of  its  prey  it  poises  in  the  air  like 
a  hawk,  and,  falling  with  a  force  that  strikes  up  the 
water  all  round  it  in  a  cloud  of  foam,  it  disappears  for 
some  seconds  below  the  surface.  By  floating  a  fish 
upon  a  small  plank,  the  bird  is  often  killed  by  the 
fishermen,  who  use  its  flesh  merely  for  bait.  Not 
noticing  the  plank,  the  gannet  swoops  down  upon  the 
fish,  drives  its  beak  deep  into  the  board,  and  breaks 
its  neck  with  the  shock. 

Gannets  are  often  taken  in  the  herring-nets,  some- 
Limes  at  extraordinary  depths.  As  many  as  ninety 


The  Wintry  Shore.  193 

have  been  brought  up  at  one  time  in  the  meshes  of  a 
single  net. 

The  prim  figure  of  the  puffin,  with  its  quaint,  up- 
right attitude  and  curious  red  bill,  is  not  a  familiar 
object  in  winter.  The  bird  is  found  throughout  the 
year  on  some  parts  of  the  coast ;  but  when  we  read 
that  the  Scilly  Islands  were  held  in  the  fourteenth 
century  under  the  King  as  Earl  of  Cornwall  by  an 
annual  payment  of  three  hundred  puffins  at  Michael- 
mas, we  are  forced  to  think  that  the  birds  must  have 
been  pickled. 

The  guillemot  and  the  razorbill,  also,  though  not 
unknown  in  the  winter,  are  much  more  numerous  in 
the  summer  months. 

An  egg  of  a  kindred  species  to  the  razorbill,  the 
great  auk  or  gairfowl,  was  sold  by  auction  in  London 
lately  for  no  less  a  sum  than  £22%.  These  remark- 
able birds,  so  helpless  on  the  shore  that  in  their 
ancient  haunts  sailors  were  accustomed  to  drive  them 
by  scores  along  a  plank  into  a  boat>  yet  so  dexterous 
in  the  water  that  a  six-oared  galley  has  followed  them 
in  vain,  must  now  be  reckoned  among  the  things  that 
were.  A  hundred  years  ago  they  were  already  be- 
coming scarce.  It  is  more  than  twice  that  time  since 
they  were  common  on  the  coast  of  Greenland,  on 
islands  near  Newfoundland,  and  around  the  shores  of 
Iceland,  where  the  last  birds  seen  alive  were  captured 
in  1844. 

Three  specimens  only  are  all  that  are  known  with 

13 


194  By  Leafy  Ways. 

certainty  to  have  been  taken  in  British  waters  during 
this  century. 

There  is  faint  hope  of  their  survival  in  some  of 
their  remoter  haunts  near  Iceland,  and  although  it  has 
been  suggested  that  the  gairfowl  may  have  retired 
northward,  and  that  in  some  unexplored  region  round 
the  Pole  it  may  yet  be  rediscovered,  there  is  only  one 
doubtful  record  of  the  occurrence  of  a  great  auk 
within  the  Arctic  Circle. 

The  commonest  of  the  larger  sea  birds  on  the  wintry 
shore  are  the  gulls.  Some  of  them  pass  through  so 
many  alterations  of  shade  and  marking  that  it  becomes 
a  little  difficult  to  recognise  with  certainty  any  particular 
gull  at  all  seasons. 

The  herring  gull,  one  of  the  commonest  and  also 
one  of  the  largest  of  the  tribe,  takes  nearly  five  years 
to  acquire  its  perfect  tones  of  white  and  grey. 

The  black-headed  gulls  lose  their  dark  hoods  in 
the  autumn  moult  and  resume  them  in  the  early 
spring. 

It  is  in  its  immature  plumage  that  the  graceful  kitti- 
wake  is  slaughtered  in  thousands  for  the  sake  of  its 
prettily  barred  wings.  It  is  a  widely  distributed 
species,  and  has  far  more  claim  to  be  called  the 
'  common '  gull  than  the  bird  which  passes  under  that 
name ;  it  is,  indeed,  doubtful  whether  the  latter  breeds 
in  England  at  all. 

The  kittiwake  is  often  used  for  food,  and  is  cele- 
brated in  some  places  as  a  sort  of  tonic.  A  story  is 


The  Wintry  Shore.  195 

told  of  a  man  who  ate  six  to  whet  his  appetite  for 
dinner,  and  then  complained  that  he  was  no  more 
hungry  than  when  he  began. 

Like  most  sea  birds,  gulls  are  fond  of  keeping  out 
to  sea,  but  in  rough  weather  are  often  driven  inland. 
In  allusion  to  this  there  is  an  old  rhyme  current  in 
the  North  of  Ireland  : 

'  Sea-gull,  sea-gull,  sit  on  the  sand  ; 
It's  never  fine  weather  when.y<?#  come  to  land.' 

Sea-birds  are  perhaps  seen  at  their  best  on  a  low 
shore  when  the  tide  is  going  down.  Each  fresh  patch 
of  sand  or  shingle  that  is  left  bare  by  the  retiring 
waves  is  occupied  by  clamorous  gulls,  or  silent,  eager 
waders  busily  searching  among  the  sand  and  stones 
for  the  rich  harvest  of  the  sea. 

Here  a  party  of  oyster-catchers,  smartly  dressed  in 
that  conspicuous  '  arrangement  in  black  and  white ' 
which  earns  for  them  the  appropriate  name  of  sea- 
pies,  settle  down  on  a  mussel-bank  which  is  just 
beginning  to  show  its  long  dark  back  above  the  surf. 
Picking  their  dainty  way  over  the  sand  and  mud,  they 
turn  over  with  their  bright  red  beaks  the  masses  of 
olive  sea-weed  that  shine  like  gold  in  the  warm  sun- 
shine, and  peer  into  every  crevice  for  razor-shell  or 
star-fish  that  may  have  been  stranded  among  the 
stones. 

On  a  strip  of  bright  sand  a  little  troop  of  ringed- 
plovers  silently  alight,  and  hurry  along  by  the  edge  of 

13—2 


ig6  By  Leafy  Ways. 

the  water,  showing  now  and  then  as  they  raise  their 
heads  the  neat  black  gorgets  that  cross  their  snowy 
breasts. 

Roving  here  and  there  among  the  pebbles  a  com- 
pany of  turnstones  are  hard  at  work,  their  red  legs  and 
bills  brilliant  in  the  sunlight. 

A  cloud  of  sandpipers,  after  sailing  a  long  way  up 
the  beach  and  then  sharply  back  again,  apparently 
unable  to  decide  where  to  look  for  their  dinners, 
suddenly  settle  down  and  spread  out  like  skirmishers 
far  and  wide  over  the  yellow  sand. 

Rocking  idly  on  the  waves  a  few  herring  gulls  are 
floating  over  their  snowy  reflections  in  the  green  water. 
Hard  by  them  stand  a  pair  of  stately  herons  waiting 
perhaps  until  the  tide  goes  down.  Farther  out  a  cor- 
morant is  diving  for  his  dinner. 

Along  the  edge  of  the  sea  wander  a  troop  of  curlews 
— wariest  of  all  the  dwellers  on  the  shore.  Should 
one  of  them  sound  an  alarm  the  scattered  flocks  of 
dunlins  and  plovers  raise  their  heads  and  hurry  closer 
together.  The  oyster-catchers  stop  their  work  and 
prepare  for  flight.  If  the  warning  is  repeated  the 
whole  crew  rise  on  the  wing  with  plaintive  cries,  and, 
breaking  up  into  parties,  move  farther  off  to  remoter 
hunting-grounds. 

Suddenly  from  behind  the  headland  sweeps  a  rolling 
sea-fog :  a  great  white  cloud  of  seething  vapour.  The 
bright  sunlight,  that  but  a  moment  since  seemed  like 
the'  soul  of  a  balmy  April  day,  is  veiled  under  the 


The  Wintry  Shore. 


197 


shadowy  canopy.  The  air  grows  chill  and  damp.  The 
touches  of  gold  melt  away  from  the  shining  sea-wrack. 
The  warm  tones  fade  from  the  rich  brown  boulders, 
the  silver  settings  from  the  glistening  pebbles.  The 
troops  of  waders,  far  out  along  the  falling  tide,  grow 
indistinct  and  disappear.  The  plovers,  as  they  run 
across  the  sand,  vanish  in  the  mist.  The  plaintive  call 
of  the  curlew,  the  musical  trill  of  the  oyster-catcher, 
the  melancholy  voices  of  the  gulls  float  faintly  over  the 
shingle,  awesome  and  mysterious,  like  phantom  voices 
in  a  shadow  land, 


r  - 


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